


Haven

by naturallyunlucky



Series: haven archive [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-18
Updated: 2005-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:25:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 85,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturallyunlucky/pseuds/naturallyunlucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archive post - Haven, October 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This account was created to serve as an archive for fic written 5-10 years ago. Given how old these stories are and how little to do they have with my more recent writing, I've chosen to remove them from my active profile, but I didn't want to delete them entirely-- I want to have them on the internet under my control, I want them to be accessible to people who may still want to revisit them for nostalgic purposes, and I kind of like having them around as a reminder.
> 
> This story is a Brucefic initially published on fanfiction.net on October 18 2005, when I was fifteen, and the flaws therein are numerous and include but are not limited to plot holes, a lack of a certain amount of social awareness, frequently shallow and sometimes childish characterization, and plenty of unrealistic details. Anyone new who wants to read on is welcome to do so, but trust me, Shakespeare it ain't. Likewise, if you feel compelled to leave feedback, feel free, but be aware that where I am now as a writer is nowhere near the place I was when I wrote this, so it likely will end up being irrelevant.
> 
> I'm going to dump the fic in its entirety into two 'chapters' in accordance with the character limit, since uploading each of the 24 chapters one at a time seems like a lot of effort for a simple archival entry. Within those two big posts, though, the chapters will be divided and [hopefully] the formatting will have stuck. Proceed at your own risk!

**Chapter One**

It was with slightly wary countenances that the rich and famous of Gotham accepted Bruce Wayne back into their circle. After all, he'd made a rather large spectacle of himself on his birthday more than a year ago _—_ it was a scandal that was talked about among his shocked peers for months. It didn't matter that he had been telling the truth _—_ apparently, things like that just weren't done.

He never really apologized for that evening. Of course, he made excuses _—_ most of them had to do with a large amount of alcohol on the wrong night _—_ but an actual "I'm sorry" was never heard falling from his mouth. This made several people look at him with suspicion, and many of course still held grudges _—_ but he was admitted once again into society with barely a murmur. After all, he was one of the richest men in Gotham. What were they going to tell him? "You hurt my feelings, Bruce; I'm never going to talk to you again, even though my company's in calamitous debt and I'm in need of your funds." Yes, that would go over _quite_ well.

Still, after several excellently catered soirées thrown at his home _—_ with no repeat of his birthday evening _—_ parties that he spent moving through the crowd quickly and efficiently and charming everyone with his slightly cynical but accurate sense of humor, it was the opinion of most that he had 'settled', and no one raised another protest.

 _If only they had_. That way, maybe Jennifer Redgrove wouldn't be standing in the midst of the crowd, her off _-_ the-shoulder formal black dress hanging awkwardly on her frame in a way that fairly screamed she was better suited to casual clothing, her longish brown, blonde-streaked hair teased and coerced into an elegant style on top of her head that, if she didn't keep her head perfectly straight, threatened to come tumbling down in tumultuous locks.

This was really her grand debut in Gotham's society. Personally, she could have done without it—there was never a moment when she more wished to be back in England, still attending college. Her graduation three months ago—in May—she viewed with regret. Maybe if she'd decided to be a doctor or a lawyer, she could have stayed on another three years, postponing the inevitable appearance as the heiress of her father's empire.

At that thought, she sent an annoyed glare at the back of her sire's gray-streaked, dark head. He'd forced her to come to this—forced her to go through everyone's smiles and 'welcome's—it all was so forged. She'd grown up around these people—she knew how to read them. There were one or two exceptions, of course—a grandfatherly, blue-eyed old man who she'd known as a young teenager, before she'd gone to boarding school, who'd patted her hand lightly with his calloused, wrinkled one, and told her honestly that he was glad she was back, and an Australian man in his mid-thirties who didn't seem bad at all and had a riotous sense of humor that had her laughing more than once.

He'd moved off, though, leaving her alone. She really didn't mind, even though it gave her too much time to think selfish thoughts—for she was quite aware that these meditations were really quite selfish, which gifted her with a certain amount of self-loathing. She _really_ didn't want to end up like her father.

Speaking of him… she hadn't heard from him for about ten minutes. That _had_ to be bad. She strained her ears to hear what he was saying—he was only five to eight feet in front of her, but those five to eight feet were filled with loud people. Mostly women. She would bet that there wasn't a decent woman there that evening—if there was, she hadn't seen one. Even the women in their fifties and sixties wore clothing that would be best suited to a strip club. A momentary lapse in the conversation just in front of her allowed her to hear her father, and her eyes widened as she heard him mention her name—wondering where she was. Well, she wasn't going to stand in front of the five or six lecherous-looking men he was talking to, subject to their scrutiny.

Looking around for an escape, she made a mental note of her thoughts prior to seeking out her sire. _Stop being so selfish_. At the same time, she could probably manage to make her father miserable—and there they went with the selfishness. She really was a hopeless case. She ducked through the crowds, hoping _not_ to run into Bruce Wayne—she hadn't laid eyes on her host the entire evening, and didn't exactly want that to change. She'd heard several rumors, many conflicting, all completely odd, that made her wary of the millionaire… billionaire… whatever he was. She really was a bit out of touch with Gotham's 'elite'.

As she split away from the crowd, she came face-to-face with Wayne's butler—a gentlemanly old man, whose name, she'd found, was Alfred. She liked him immediately—probably for the rather satirical glint in his eyes. It was almost as if he was declaring himself better than these people, the self-declared crème de la crème, even though he was naught—in many eyes—but the hired help. That in itself earned Jenn's respect, though many either didn't pick up on it or ignored it.

"Do you need something, Miss Redgrove?" he asked of her placidly. She offered a brief smile, one that, as small as it was, was one of the few genuine ones of the evening.

"No, Alfred, I'm fine," she answered, wondering absently if he knew the names of everyone there that night. Probably so. "Just breaking away from the crowd a bit."

That earned her a pair of lifted brows from him, but he didn't question her. She moved off and, as soon as she was out of his sight, hidden by the people on the edges of the room, grasped a random doorknob and slipped into the room it offered, shutting the door behind her.

It was pitch black inside but for a large window on the opposite side of the room, which let the faded moonlight stream through. She wanted to move towards it but didn't, as she didn't know the layout in the room and would probably trip over something, such was her luck. So she just leaned her head back against the door and sent up a thanks for the fact that she wouldn't have to face her father's colleagues, even if her little detour had only bought her more time. She was now in relative peace.

Alas, not for long.

"What're you doing in here?" The male voice, rather mild, came from the other side of the room, from one of the dark corners. She jumped—she couldn't help herself. She looked around briefly, but still couldn't see anything, even though her eyes were rapidly adjusting to the darkness.

"Um…" She found this a bit odd, conversing with someone in pitch black, but she didn't figure that it'd be very polite to suddenly flick on the lights—even if she knew where the switch was, which, right now, she didn't—so she decided to be honest. "Hiding," she confessed.

"Hiding?" Now it would appear that he was amused. "From whom?" He sounded fairly young—late twenties or early thirties, maybe? He also sounded relaxed—her main clue as to his age. Most of her father's older colleagues sounded as if they had a stick up their arses. Would have been amusing if it wasn't so sad.

"Pretty much everyone. My father in particular." She tried to restrain the bitterness at the latter part of the statement. Really, she did.

"Me, too," he confessed. "It can get kind of scary out there," he added with a laugh that brought a smile to her face.

_Definitely not as uptight as everyone else here._

Well, except Alfred, maybe. Of course, the butler had such an air of formality around him… but that was him, it was what he was. It crossed her mind that maybe she should find out who her dark-shrouded partner in conversation (and crime, if hiding from those people was indeed a crime) was, but the tinge of regret that accompanied the thought was enough to make her hold back the question. She probably wouldn't like him too much if she knew who he was.

"Where are you?" she inquired suddenly.

"Over in the corner near the window."

"Which corner? There're two."

"The left."

"Oh," she said. Suddenly, he chuckled, and she got the feeling that he was laughing at her. "What?" she asked, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Would you rather I moved near the window?" he inquired, ignoring her question.

"It would help, yeah," she answered. There was the sound of movement, and then his silhouette appeared next to the lightly illuminated window, head turned towards her. She lifted an eyebrow.

"Are you coming over here or not?" he asked, sounding half teasing, half serious. The eyebrow arched higher, even though she was certain that he couldn't see it.

"That depends. Am I gonna trip over something?"

"You shouldn't," he said. "From what I saw, there's a straight path to the window. Unless you wander, you shouldn't stumble over anything."

She shrugged and started forward, careful to manage her shoes. A few seconds later, she'd reached the window without incident, and turned so she was facing the stranger, although both their faces were cast in shadow. They stared at each other for a minute—it kind of reminded Jenn of the game she and her roommates would play in boarding school—there'd be very little light, like that of a digital alarm clock or watch, and they'd stare at each other in the near pitch-black till one or both would see the other's face turn into something either hilarious or terrifying, most often the latter. He looked rather menacing, so she had to look away before she got more freaked out than she already was.

"You're taller than you sound," he said presently. Well, she would think so—though she noticed that even with her elevated shoes, he still had about three or four inches on her, making him about 6'1—or probably 6'2, if he stood up completely straight.

Come to think of it, she hadn't known that anyone could _sound_ short.

"It's because of my heels," she said. "They're four inches high. And… really uncomfortable," she confessed, hardly believing that she was telling him, a total stranger, this. Well, she had to talk to _someone_. The highest heels she'd ever worn before this were two inches, and even then she'd tripped all over the place in them.

He laughed again. To be honest, she hadn't expected otherwise. "You're new to the Gotham scene, aren't you?"

"Not really," she replied. "The current prospect, yeah, but I was here for till I was fourteen before I left Gotham for… eight years?" She paused, and then nodded. "Yeah. I just got back about three days ago."

"You're Jennifer Redgrove," he said suddenly.

"Yeah—my friends call me Jenn, though," she said, forehead furrowing slightly. "How did you—"

"Oh, I'd heard that you were coming back a while ago." He paused for a moment. "Looks like you've grown up some."

"What?" she inquired, his talk confusing her more and more with every turn.

"Last time I saw you—" And now he sounded like he was hiding laughter, _great_ , "—you were thirteen, had a fake pierced nose and bright red and black streaked hair."

"Oh!" She immediately looked at the ground, feeling her face heat as her cheeks flamed—she was thankful he couldn't see it. "Oh…" she repeated, her voice hardly more than a mutter as he let out a muted laugh. "You saw me going through _that_ painful little rebellion, did you?"

"I had to work hard not to laugh out loud," he said, still chuckling.

"Quite obviously, you're not trying too hard now," she said in a halfhearted attempt to be angry.

"Well, I couldn't very well indulge then—you might have attacked me. You _looked_ like you might, anyway."

"What, you couldn't handle a teenager?" she asked. She saw his shoulders lift into a lazy shrug, and he started suppressing the laughter again. It had taken on a rather wry turn now, though, she noticed. "Now, which of my father's colleagues were you to see me in my punk stage?"

"Actually, I—"

He was interrupted as the door was pushed open again, sending a large beam of light to illuminate them both. They both glanced at the culprit, looking rather annoyed—or that could have been simply because the light made them squint, making them _look_ angry. Alfred stood in the doorway.

"Master Bruce, the party is drawing to a close. As painful as it might be, I suggest that you head out to bid everyone farewell."

_Master Bruce?_

Jenn quickly directed her gaze towards the man she'd been speaking to only to have her suspicions confirmed—tall, with amused brown eyes, distinctive, light-colored mouth turned slightly upwards in a half-smirk, tousled and short brown hair—the face that her eyes met with was, indeed, the striking face that had been in the papers every day since she'd returned (Apparently, the business of a billionaire was everyone's business).

"Bruce Wayne," he said, pulling his hands from his pockets and offering one to her. She just barely managed to take it, noting immediately that his palms were coarser than any of Gotham's glitterati so forth—far from being unpleasant, his handshake was comfortingly like those of the hard-working men she'd known in England—which rather puzzled her. What did he do differently from the others among his rank that made such a difference?

After a few seconds of the contact he pulled away again, flashing her a grin that made her feel as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, and then strode out of the room. Alfred left the door open, keeping her illumined, and gave her a rather odd look before following Wayne from the room.

Jenn stood there for a few seconds, still in a mild state of shock. Wayne hadn't been like the rumors and tabloids said—not that she read them, but their cook, Lydia, did. He seemed almost… normal. At least, that was what she'd derived from her brief conversation. She shook her head, ignoring the fact that her hair was falling out of its graceful style to land in stray locks around her shoulders. What was she thinking? She didn't even know the man—probably wouldn't ever speak to him again—and she was trying to figure him out?

A shadow fell over her and she glanced to see her father looking in at her. She suppressed a cry of frustration at his presence.

"Jenn, where have you been?" he snapped. "I've been looking for you for the past half hour. The party's over now, though—and you haven't gotten _anything_ accomplished."

Yes, that was her dear old dad, all right. Never stopping, always out to gain what he wanted—even at an event that was supposed to be an occasion for people to loosen up. Not that they did, of course—Jenn was willing to bet that they only came to further their social progress. She sighed and walked past him, not telling him a word of her conversation with Wayne. No doubt, if he discovered that she'd experienced that small exchange, he'd probe her for each exact detail and then abuse her stupidity on a.) Not realizing it was him sooner and b.) Not throwing herself at him in hopes that he'd look more kindly on their family later.

She left the house, keeping her head down and not making eye contact, lest she be forced once more to make small talk with the gold-diggers of Gotham.

They left the Wayne Estate.

**Chapter Two**

_Alek Redgrove was a man of many words and insatiable greed. He hadn't always been that way_ — _at one point in time, though it was hard to imagine, he had been your average adolescent boy, struggling with the problems that normal teenagers went through. That changed when he turned eighteen and his father died._

_Alek immediately decided not to live in the same manner that his shattered and impoverished family had. Forgoing college, he secured a position in the bottom of a huge company and swiftly worked his way through the ranks. He turned into a miser, and by the age of twenty-five, had made several million. When the company he worked for went through serious financial problems, he bought it out and renamed it. A year later, he met and married his soft-spoken Georgian wife, Maggie Whitney._

_Their marriage was happy for about half a year. Alek began to… reap the benefits that his money offered_ — _namely, dozens of willing and beautiful women. For a few months, Maggie turned a blind eye to the many…_ indiscretions _that her husband showed. When she found out that she was two months into pregnancy, however, she decided that she didn't want her child to have to grow up and go through that, and she began pleading with him, discreetly hiding her pregnant state from him._

 _He didn't listen. Another month and she'd given up. She gathered the money that she had access to in order to take care of her child, and left. Alek really didn't care, still not knowing of her pregnancy_ — _she'd barely begun to show, and had disguised it by wearing looser clothing. She went to Kentucky and after setting herself up with the money she'd taken, reverted to her maiden name, and gave birth to a six pound, seven ounce daughter_ — _me. She named me Jennifer Aislin Whitney, the name 'Jennifer' that of my grandmother. To avoid confusion when Maggie went to visit her family_ — _rarely, as she didn't want them to be endangered by her_ — _'Jennifer' was eventually shortened to 'Jenn'._

 _By the time I was eight, I'd developed fierce loyalty to my family and friends, devotion to my mother, and good manners and southern hospitality. I tended to have a little trouble with bossiness, but Maggie just reprimanded and punished me as was necessary for this_ — _I always knew she privately laughed at me, and that was because she'd been exactly the same way as a child, and she was confident that I would outgrow the phase. She was, for the most part, right. Unfortunately, she never got to see me do so. Prepare for upcoming angst._

 _It seemed that Alek had, from somewhere in the back of his mind, grown curious as to his ex-wife's (or wife's, as legally she was still married to him) whereabouts. When he'd discovered that he had a daughter_ — _for at that time, I had greatly resembled my father, although the older I got, the more my father's features faded and were replaced with my mother's_ — _he'd immediately and personally come out to Kentucky. After seeing me and growing rather enchanted with my absurd ways and the idea of having a daughter_ — _although I hadn't known at the time that he was my father_ — _he had obviously wanted to take me back to Gotham. Maggie had refused. Alek had argued, but eventually, withdrawn in silence._

 _Two months later, Maggie's murder shattered the peace of the quiet community. I had been the one to find her_ — _I had come home from school to see my mother sprawled across the living room and knifed several times in the chest. They never found her murderer. I was seriously shaken, withdrawn_ — _had a lot of problems for the next year, but_ — _even though I hated to hear people say it_ — _a child's mind is resilient. I guess you could_ say _that I got over it. Honestly? I haven't. Anyway, I had been taken in by my distraught neighbors for the present time, till, a few days later, Alek showed up and coolly informed me that he'd heard of the misfortune, was my father, and was going to take me back to Gotham._

 _I didn't buy it. I much rather wanted to stay with my next door neighbor, who was willing to take me in and had a daughter my age_ — _my best friend, Miriam. Alek had refused, and things had eventually been taken to court. I didn't know just how wealthy he was at the time, and the judge_ — _he was from Montana, a generally nice man_ — _had quite obviously been either bought off or threatened. He granted my father total custody._

 _I suppose I should be ashamed of the behavior I showed that day, but I'm not. I'd flopped down on the floor and started wailing, and let all my limbs go completely limp so that when he tried to set my on my feet I just flopped back down again. He'd eventually carried me out, literally kicking and screaming at him_ — _some of the words those that I shouldn't have even known, but used anyway to show him how much I hated and distrusted him_ — _to the car. No one interfered._

_I never even got to say goodbye to Miriam._

_I hadn't stopped crying the entire trip. Even when I ran out of tears and just dry_ - _sobbed, my misery was as pure and real as it had been hours before when I'd heard that I had to go with him. You see, I'd never really wanted to know my father, unlike many children who had grown up without one. My mother had impressed on me since I was very young the fact that my father was not a good person, and definitely not one to be trusted_ — _whenever she said this, she delivered it with a sad tone, so I suspected that she still was in love with him, despite all his faults. The verity that he was a scoundrel held the same impression that the knowledge of the existence of God did_ — _I couldn't remember a time when I didn't entirely believe either._

 _So, I'd never liked my father_ — _from the time when I was a toddler, to the time he tried to spoil me, to the time he finally got sick of me and sent me to boarding school in England at age fourteen, to the present time. I hadn't been exactly a model child and had relieved him of many of his delusions that he'd have a miniature tycoon model of him wandering around in his footsteps. Maybe a son would have suited him better. My grudge was too deep-set to forgive him, and I really never had. Perhaps I might have if he'd been a_ father _to me, not just a benefactor and teacher. And he didn't teach me normal things, either_ — _not how to fly a kite or water-ski or climb a tree (honestly I needed no help with the latter, I'd loved them with a passion that even a broken leg caused from falling out of a tree at age seven couldn't dim). Oh, no. He taught me how to tell if a financial representative from another company was lying, how to tastefully insult rivals, and generally be either a stuck-up, rich brat or a petty teenager._

 _He'd resorted to using me to get to people's hearts_ — _for example, he'd take me along to a meeting with a fellow tycoon who had several daughters or sons my age. Thirteen at the time and going through difficult phases of my own as I changed from child to woman, I'd seen through this, and so I'd fought back by going through a serious rebellion that included changing my entire appearance_ — _wild hair coloring, fake piercings all over the place_ — _I didn't have the nerve to really pierce anything but my ears, since I'd heard that anywhere else hurt rather badly_ — _and typical punk clothing. I even toted a dirty skateboard around wherever I went and actually grew quite good at using it._

 _Several months, a few days after I turned fourteen, my father's patience wore thin. He and I had had a serious fight, during which he called me many things which no man should_ ever _call a woman, let alone a_ father _call his_ daughter— _stubborn_ bitch _, stuck-up_ whore _, stupid little_ bastard _, and other insults of a more creative nature that I really haven't the guts to lay down here. I hit him in the stomach_ — _I'd been rather short for my age and he was a full six feet, an entire twelve inches taller than I was_ — _tramping down the guilt I felt at hitting an authority figure. He'd hit me back, slapping me with force across the face. I'd never been struck by an adult_ — _of course, my mother had believed in corporeal punishment, switching me with an old peach tree branch whenever I did something that warranted it, but I'd never been hit by an authority figure out of true anger or desire to harm me, so, fighting tears, I'd kicked him in the shins_ — _both of them_ — _and run like hell. In hindsight, I should have aimed a little higher up and more to the center. That would have showed him._

 _That evening, he summoned me via one of our maids. I warily entered his office, palming a small switchblade that was lying around (my father tended to keep numerous weapons around the mansion in case anyone ever broke in)_ — _typical southern girl, I was willing to fight back if he'd brought me there just to abuse me._

 _Turned out, he hadn't. Not even looking at me as he worked at his desk, he informed me coldly that I was to be finishing high school and quite possibly attending college in England. I was to leave the next day. I'm rather embarrassed to say that, first, I buried the switchblade in his desk right above his hand and_ then _I gave him the finger as I left the room, no matter how much he deserved it._

 _One of our butlers had taken me to the airport the next day. No words were exchanged between my father and myself_ — _in fact, I didn't even see him before I left. He made no offer to bring me home for holidays, and I spent a full eight years away from all that was familiar_ — _of course, that was before I'd realized somewhere in the third year that England had_ become _my home. And then, just as I'd geared myself up to spend my the rest of my life quite contentedly in England, I received word from him that he was bringing me home to learn how to take over his empire when he was gone. And just like that, I was torn away from the many friends I'd made and the kindly English family that had fostered me during my stay in England (and really become my real family, as I was not allowed to contact my mother's parents and siblings), and tossed back into Gotham._

_And people wonder why I hate my father._

Jenn sat next to her father in the limousine, choosing the arrangement so that she wouldn't have to look at him. She looked to the right, out her window, attempting fruitlessly to drown out his voice, which was boasting of the achievements he'd completed that evening. He had the kind of voice that demanded attention, much to her regret. She contented herself by wondering if the driver would notice if she broke one of the scotch glasses scattered around in the various cupholders and slit her father's throat with a piece… she was sure she could get out of the window and sprint down the road—taking off her high heels and using them as weapons against any attackers—before anyone realized anything was wrong. For several minutes this went on, then—

"Jenn, are you even hearing me?" Now he was irritated. How wonderful.

"Unfortunately, yeah," she answered, still looking out her window. She started in surprise when she felt his fingers grasp her chin and turn her head towards him, and jerked her head out of his grasp, treating him to the full force of her glare.

"You look too much like your mother," he told her. She lifted her eyebrows at this admission.

"Glad I do," she responded, her voice both cold and breezy. "Otherwise, I'd probably look like you." His blue eyes glittered in amusement.

"You managed it well enough when you were a kid, why not now?"

"For one thing, _Dad_ , you're not exactly the most feminine of men—and," she said, pointing a look towards his grizzled lower chin, "I don't think a beard would exactly suit me." He let out a bark of laughter. She flushed and tossed her head, looking way from him again. As her brown eyes fell on the streetlight-illuminated roadside, she jumped and gave a gasp of horror. "Stop the car!"

"What? What is it?" Alek demanded, instantly alert.

"There's someone being mugged out there!" Alek leaned over her to see, and then settled back in his seat.

"Oh. For a moment I thought it might be something of importance." The limousine coasted by the beaten man, who'd been ganged up on by two thugs. Jenn stared with a slightly gaping mouth at her father, shell-shocked.

" _Something of importance?!_ Father, a man is out there having the life beaten out of him!"

"He won't be the only one tonight," Alek said, shrugging pitilessly. "For heaven's sake, Jenn," he said languidly, leaning back in his seat, "you're going to have to get used to this."

"What?" Confusion twisted her countenance, along with a dawning expression of revulsion towards her father.

"Crime," he said, waving an abstract hand around. "Gotham City's riddled with it. Surely you weren't too caught up in your own problems to notice it before you left for England?"

"Of course not," she said, her temper flaring slightly, but kept in check by her fervency in wanting to discuss the topic at hand. "But that was eight years ago! I thought that the depression was over."

Alek scoffed. "That's what the police and politicians want everyone to think. If anything, it's gotten worse. You can barely pull 'round a corner without seeing someone getting robbed or raped." He glanced over to see his daughter's eyes filling slowly with horror, and lifted his thick black brows. "You haven't noticed it before this?"

"I haven't been out of the house," she said automatically, almost numbly as she stared straight ahead, right through him. A second later, her eyes snapped back to his, alert once more and starting to grow starry with anger. "And the police aren't doing anything?"

"The police are overrun," snorted Alek. "No one wants to join their forces and get killed, and they have a distinct lack of funds."

" _You_ could fund them," Jenn suggested, a compelling look in her eyes. Alek gave a lethargic shake of his head.

"No."

"Why?" she demanded, a flicker of repulsion showing briefly in her eyes. He gave her a look.

"There are many ways crime can be used to our advantages, Jenn," he said, as if explaining something to a very small child. She glared and turned her head away from him.

"I don't _believe_ this! Surely someone's doing something!" Alek gave a soft snort. She glanced at him. "What?" she demanded, incensed.

"Well, there is someone," he said with an intolerable smirk that her palms itched to smack from his face. She restrained herself by reminding herself that, whether she liked it or not, he _was_ her father, and she wouldn't allow herself to hit him except on special occasions.

"Who?"

"The Bat-Man," he said with an expression of cynical amusement that made her assume that he found this idea ridiculous. She lifted her eyebrows, startled momentarily from her anger.

"Batman?" she asked. "I'd heard rumors, but I hadn't believed them—a giant bat swooping around is the sort of story you'd expect to see in the tabloids that deal with outrageous rumors—like the birth of an alien baby by a cat or Bigfoot's wedding to Nessie."

"That's where he should be," muttered Alek. "Maybe if he were given that kind of publicity, he'd go back into the shadows and leave us in peace. But people and the police continue to laud him like he's some sort of crime-fighting superhero—"

"Isn't that what he is?" Jenn inquired, slightly bemused.

"He's a nuisance," Alek said shortly. "Always sticking his pointy nose where it doesn't belong."

"You mean he's actually making a difference?"

"If he has, it's subtle at best. The crime rate's stopped escalating for the first time in decades, but it's not going down, that's for sure." He shifted impatiently, and she correctly read the sign to mean that he was irritated at the conversation. She pushed anyway.

"And you say the police know and approve?"

"Actually, I didn't say that. They know, and it's a point of dispute with them. Some say that no one can take the law into his hands and he should be locked up—others say that he doesn't kill people, so they let him do what he does."

"He doesn't kill them?" She looked disbelieving. "Why? Doesn't he think that people like that deserve to die?"

"You're questioning what a giant bat thinks? He's demented and quite possibly insane, Jenn; you can't find motive in someone like that."

She shook her head silently and returned her attention to her window, her dismay only growing as they passed alley after alley filled with crime.

**Chapter Three**

A New and Ghastly Arrival

Several evenings later saw Midnight taking hold of Gotham City with a sleek grace that only darkness could possess, gliding over the sky and pushing clouds into consuming the full moon's light, leaving only the artificial lighting of street lamps and fluorescent lights streaming through windows. Somewhere in the distance, spotlights perused the sky for a reason known only to those manning them.

Most of the lights were out in the skyscraper nicknamed 'Handbasket', an apartment building known for, first, its huge, luxurious, and expensive flats and, secondly, it's tendency to rent out to people—especially men—suspected of crimes, but that were good enough at covering their tracks to ensure that they wouldn't be indicted. That was how the building had gotten its not-so-affectionate moniker—from the familiar and morbid axiom: _Going to hell in a handbasket._

On the nineteenth floor of the Handbasket this was the case as well—the lights were quenched, sending the rooms of the flat into nearly pitch darkness. Marcus Breach stood at the window, looking out from his vantage point over the glowing city, a black bathrobe tied loosely around him and a hand running over his balding head. He was a wealthy man, well past fifty, one of the few men in the building never accused of a criminal act. He actually seemed rather involved in the community, giving generous donations to charities and pursuing an end to the depression. His lecherous ways, however, often got in the way of his goals.

"Mmm, Marcus," purred a rich, sated female voice from further back in the room. "Coming back to bed?"

"In a minute," he responded absentmindedly, his gaze still raking the buildings below. There was a brief pause, in which the curvaceous woman behind him could be heard shifting about.

"Marcus, darling," she murmured, her musical voice merely a sultry vibration in the dark, "Do you like spiders?"

"No," he replied shortly.

"Nonetheless… I wonder, do you know what's distinctive about the black widow spider?"

"Um," he responded distractedly, "no, what's that?" He heard her get up behind him.

"After mating, the female kills and eats the male," she murmured softly. "The male knows very well that he's going to his death when he approaches her, but he doesn't care, his blind lust ruling him." Marcus turned to look sharply at her, but could only see darkness.

"Where are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"Goodbye, Marcus." Her voice sounded preposterously satisfied. "It's been fun, but I _did_ warn you that I was dangerous."

The silenced gunfire really didn't make that much of a noise outside of the room, just a few soft 'pings' and the sound of bullets hitting soft flesh several times in a row. It could hardly be ignored, however, when Marcus Breach, still flailing wildly, tumbled backwards into and shattered the window, falling headfirst to the pavement below.

The woman gathered up her clothing, wrapped a trenchcoat around herself, and left.

* * *

_Twenty-one year old Bruce Wayne was bored._

_Since he was home for the summer, Alfred had approached him with the information that he had some obligatory attendances to make_ — _something that had to do with Wayne Enterprises. Bruce didn't take too well to it. Wasn't Mr. Earle supposed to deal with that? Bruce didn't like going to the company. It reminded him of his father._

 _But he was here now, waiting to speak with Mr. Earle, who was meeting in the next room with a business partner. He could hear their quiet voices through the door, had been listening to them for the past five minutes while waiting in boredom. Suddenly, though, a new voice_ — _a louder, younger one_ — _sounded through the door._

" _Oh, you have_ got _to be kidding me!"_

_There was a sudden hush, and then a murmuring. The voice came again._

" _Oh, hell no. You're crazy."_

 _After that, the door opened and out slipped a girl_ — _on the younger side of the teenage years, judging by the traces of baby fat that remained, though most of it had disappeared into a well_ - _formed face. The assumption that she was a young teenager was backed up by her clear complexion, untouched as of yet by any spots_ — _but this wasn't nearly as surprising as the fact that her hair_ — _chin_ - _length_ — _was wildly black and pink striped, a noise_ - _piercing that was clearly fake, and her taped-up wrists were locked around a dirty skateboard._

 _An eyebrow arched above his green eyes, a smirk tugging at his mouth, but before he could do more than wonder why a thirteen-year-old was in the building, Mr. Earle and a stranger_ — _Mr. Redgrove, he assumed, having picked up the name from the secretary_ — _followed her. The smile disappeared. She was probably just another spoiled brat of a too-wealthy businessman._

_Mr. Redgrove, though, didn't seem inclined to give her her way. He crossed his arms, glaring at her. "Honestly, Jenn, this is childish," he snapped._

" _You're_ crazy. _Seriously, Dad, when have you ever been able to bribe me into doing the crap you ask?"_

 _The smirk was back on Bruce's face. By now, Mr. Earle had noticed and come over quickly, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry about this, Bruce_ — _they do this all the time_ — _"_

All the time, huh? That's interesting… _thought Bruce, lifting a hand for quiet as he continued to listen to the argument_ — _father and daughter continued unabated, obviously having not noticed Bruce._

" _Jenn, it was a simple request. Find the courier and bring him here."_

"' _Through whatever means necessary,'" Jenn recited in a faux-deep voice, obviously quoting her father. "'Even if you have to bat your eyelashes, get him here_ — _' even though I'm freaking thirteen years old and that guy's, like, thirty_ - _something! Dad, that's worse than_ usual _!"_

" _When will you learn to stop with the dramatics?" growled Redgrove, clearly displeased._

" _Oh-ho-ho, you want to see_ dramatics _?" Jenn demanded. She dropped her skateboard, looking around and settling on a paperweight. "Try this on for size, asshole!" She threw the heavy glass at him, and he wasn't fast enough to dodge_ — _it hit him in the kneecap. She let out a gleeful giggle at this, Redgrove cursed, and Bruce decided to interfere before they killed one another, as entertaining as the spectacle was. He glided forward._

_Redgrove saw him first, but Bruce directed his statement to Jenn. "You know we could sue you for that."_

_She looked up at him, eyes clear, brown, and defiant, though her expression clearly said:_ what the hell? _She seemed slightly taken-aback for a second, covering it up by scooping up her skateboard. "I'm a minor_ — _plus, I don't have any money. You'd have to sue my dad, and_ please _do that. He_ needs _some of his money taken away."_

 _Bruce's suspicions were confirmed. This_ wasn't _just any rich brat. He allowed a hint of a smile to show, and she quickly caught it and returned it with one of her own_ — _she still had some of her baby teeth. Redgrove, still holding his knee, glared at Jenn._

" _Go down to the lobby," he said through gritted teeth._

 _Jenn looked between Bruce and her father, and to Bruce's slight and hidden disappointment decided that it wasn't worth fighting_ — _he would have been amused by another argument. She sighed, rolled her eyes in blatant disrespect, and left the room._

 _Jenn didn't find out till later (when her father arrived from the conference and chewed her out for embarrassing him) that it had been Bruce Wayne that she'd spoken to that day. She'd just known that the guy with the cute smile that revealed distinctive canine teeth had been extremely hot for someone so much older than she was_ — _though, really, the gap wasn't all that substantial_ ; _she'd seen men her father associated with paired with women more than twenty years their junior._

Yeah, dream on, _she told herself afterwards. She probably wasn't going to see Bruce Wayne again, and he probably had a girlfriend. Teenage crushes never lasted, she reminded herself. After a month had passed, she'd successfully put him from her mind._

* * *

Jenn awoke to sunlight streaming in her room, and lifted her tousled head to glare at the large window that directed the light unswervingly towards her bed. Her father must have sent one of the maids to pull open the curtains and get her up with the sun. She glanced at her alarm clock and groaned—she would have had ten extra minutes of sleep if not for the blasted sun!

 _I hate you, sun_ , she thought vehemently. The light seemed to shine brighter, making a mockery of her. She tossed aside the thick down coverlet, climbing out of bed and reaching up to run both hands through her untidy hair. Clad in only her pajama pants and a white logo t-shirt, she headed through the hallways to the kitchen.

Lydia held reign there. The cheerful forty-something woman had been born a native African but been brought by her parents to Metropolis at age thirteen, and then again moved to Gotham when she was eighteen. She'd been working for Alek since his elevation into the status of a millionaire, and even though he was never truly genial to anyone, Jenn knew that Lydia had far more leeway than any other servant there, being the oldest and most trusted of them all—not oldest as in most elderly, oldest as in she'd been there the longest. The gleam in her eyes matched that which Jenn had seen in Alfred's, and Lydia was one of the few things Jenn loved about her father's house.

She'd maintained her Kenyan accent, despite it being weakened slightly by influences from the other places she'd lived, and grinned freely at Jenn as the young woman entered her kitchen.

"I take it you won't eat breakfast with your father, then," she observed. Jenn surveyed her suspiciously and then decided that she was teasing—Lydia's sense of humor was extremely subtle, as she delivered all her repartee with a totally straight face, and deadpan voice, so it was difficult to tell whether she was joking or not. Jenn had become a master at it sifting out her teasing from her normal talk during ages eight through fourteen, when she'd lived here last, and was just now, a week after her return from England, growing accustomed to it again.

"Oh, no, Lydia," she said, teasing in turn, although she wasn't nearly as good at keeping a straight face as the older woman was, "don't you know I had a sudden change of heart? I want to be _just_ like him and so I need to spend all the time I can with him!" Lydia laughed.

"When hell freezes over, Miss Jenn," she responded dryly. Jenn chuckled in return, seating herself on one of the tall, metallic bar stools, scowling at the feel of the cold metal sinking through her thin pants. "Speaking of your father, he wanted me to tell you that you'll be obligated to attend the opening of the new nightclub he bought last week. The event takes place a week from tonight."

"What? You're kidding!" Jenn's scowl deepened. Lydia's eyes glimmered wickedly.

"Look at it as an opportunity, Miss Jenn. If you embarrass him deeply enough, you might not have to attend these events anymore." Jenn's face lightened considerably at this. Lydia laughed. "What'll you have?"

"Just fruit this morning," Jenn replied, already deep into her plots. Lydia nodded sagely.

"I'm not surprised. That makes it the fifth time since you got back—you like your breakfast light, don't you?" Jenn shrugged.

"Anything heavier than fruit or granola usually makes me want to throw up—it's not that I stuffed myself, but my stomach can't handle anything really processed or solid in the morning."

"Ah, what I wouldn't give for the older days when you'd eat plates and plates full of stuff," Lydia mused. "You made me feel so appreciated when I actually had to _cook_ your breakfast instead of give you things that I can't make myself, like oranges and grapefruits." Jenn grinned, realizing once more that the cook was teasing. She was getting better at that.

"Sorry," she said with a laugh as Lydia turned away and retrieved a large basket that contained the fruit that didn't require refrigeration and pushed it in front of her.

"There are grapes and I think one passion fruit in the fridge, if you're in the mood for those," she told her.

"Passion fruit?" Jenn said, immediately straightening up and looking around. "Where?" Lydia chuckled again and found said item in the refrigerator, setting it and a knife and plate in front of the young woman. Jenn blushed slightly. "Thanks," she said, a bit embarrassed at her eagerness. She just hadn't had passion fruit in about a year.

"Not a problem, Miss Jenn," Lydia responded, pulling the day's newspaper off the counter and passing it to her. "There's the news, if you want it. Now I must get back to my work."

"Thank you, Lydia," Jenn said with a genuine smile, and Lydia nodded as she turned away and resumed cooking—Jenn didn't know what it was, exactly.

So, she just cut into her passion fruit instead of trying to figure it out, ate half of it, and then pulled the newspaper towards her. Her forehead creased as she caught the headline:

**MILLIONAIRE MARCUS BREACH MURDERED**

Forgetting her breakfast, Jenn pushed the plate aside and picked up the paper with both hands, perusing the article speedily and with growing disquiet. Whoever had written the article seemed a bit sketchy on details, only managing to tell that the man had been shot several times in the torso and then pushed out of a window, breaking his spine in several places as well as his neck on the street. Apparently, there were too many suspects to narrow them down in an article, as Breach had seemed to have enemies everywhere.

Folding the newspaper and feeling slightly sick, Jenn glanced up at Lydia's back. "Lyd, did you read this?"

"What?" The woman turned and Jenn displayed the paper. "Oh, yes. That. Yes, I did—it isn't anything new, to speak the truth."

"Surely murder isn't that common around here?" asked Jenn desperately, clinging to a last hope. Lydia examined her.

"I'm afraid it is, Miss Jenn," she said softly. "This is just another day in Gotham—it only made the front page because Marcus Breach was wealthy."

Jenn felt nauseous. She glanced down at her breakfast and felt as if she might be sick if she ate any more, so she picked up the plate and pulled out the drawer next to her that contained a trash can, tipping the contents of the dish into it and then getting up to put her plate in the sink. "I'm not hungry anymore," she said. "Thanks, Lydia."

Before the cook could say anything else, she disappeared from the kitchen, leaving through the swinging door.

* * *

One of the few benefits of having Alek Redgrove as your father—unless you were rather infatuated with material possessions and wealth—was that you had a lot of space to yourself.

There was the house. It was smaller than the Wayne Manor, but still very obviously spacious. Jenn had always figured that had her father not been so occupied with the public eye, where it fell and how to impress it, that he would have looked around and realized that he was losing money on the house. It didn't matter much, as he could afford to have a hundred estates exactly the same size and their maintenance wouldn't put a dent in his tremendous fortune. Not even a dimple, as a matter of fact. Still, the upkeep of the grounds as well as the salaries of the dozen or more servants that took care of the house cost easily three quarters of a million a year.

Still, even _if_ Alek realized how much money was going down the drain with the mansion, Jenn doubted that he would sell it. It looked too good on the cover of "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous". All the better, for Alek had given her the entire east wing of the house if she'd just stay out of his way unless he asked for her. It suited her perfectly.

So the afternoon found her in her version of a rec room. She'd made some changes to it—it'd been kept the same since she'd left, something that might have touched her if she wasn't so positively certain that Alek only kept it that way because he hadn't seen fit to put it to some other use. She'd kept the rock-climbing wall and pool table but moved out the television, game systems, and pool table, bringing in a weight set and punching bag to replace them.

She enjoyed working out, though she was no Butch. It was a type of release for her, especially after an argument or bad day. The punching bag was especially popular with her, as she had a bad habit of picturing the people she was angry at as she pounded the crap out of the thing with a mixture of cheating and assorted katas from the karate she'd been taught for years on and off.

That's where Alek found her that evening—beating up on the unfortunate black punching bag, in bare feet with her hair pulled back away from her face. She wasn't angry at anyone at the time, but felt like doing something instead of lying dormant, reading or watching TV. She didn't look at him, so he settled down on the steps that lead down to the room, giving no heed to the expensive suit he was wearing.

There was a pause in the hammering. "What're you doing down here?" Jenn asked, deciding to kick the bag several times and several different ways.

"Looking for you," Alek answered coolly.

"That's obvious. Why?" she queried, speaking shortly to save her energy.

"Why do you waste your time doing stuff like this?" he asked, looking around and brushing one hand lightly through the black hair shot with gray that topped his head. Unlike many men his age, he was in no danger of losing his hair, but it really never struck him to be thankful for it. He considered it his due.

"Define 'stuff'." She continued to pelt the bag.

"Jenn, as many times as I might think it, you aren't stupid. Look around you. Why aren't you out shopping? Why isn't this room at least decorated in a way that would befit a woman?"

She finally stopped her assault, reaching out to steady the bag with now-trembling hands as her chest heaved up and down from lack of breath. She hadn't had a rest in about a half an hour, and was just realizing how tired she was.

After she regained her breath, she glanced over at Alek. "You know how sexist that remark was, don't you?" He shrugged. She turned away from him, walking over to the table in the room that held equipment for her various activities. She began unwrapping her wrist bandages. "You still haven't answered my question, _Father_ ," she told him, her voice slightly mocking.

"I came to find out if Lydia told you—"

"About the club next week. I've got it, thanks bunches. If that's all, you can go."

"No, that's not all." He got up from the stairs, coming down the rest of the way into the room just as she finished unwrapping her wrists and turned back towards him, leaning back against the table and crossing her arms, a bit absorbed in how the cool air felt against her hands now that they weren't swathed in ace. She glanced down at her wrists, which had the little pinkish indentations in them that came from the bandages—sort of like resting an elbow on a carpeted floor for too long.

"I'm assuming you're going to tell me what 'all' is as soon as you're finished trying to intimidate me?" Normally, she wouldn't be this bold, but she'd just finished killing the punching bag and was rather confident in herself at the moment. She glanced up to see that he was only a foot in front of her, and glared—he knew that she didn't like it when he got close enough to touch her.

He glared right back at her. "Why didn't you tell me that you spoke with Bruce Wayne last week?"

She would have been shocked, but for the fact that nothing escaped her father forever—he had a penchant for finding things out that people wanted to keep hidden. She looked up at him, allowing her annoyance to shine through. "Because I knew that you'd immediately freak."

"I would have appreciated this information."

"Why? So you could involve him in some evil plot that you've been concocting lately?"

"Jenn." His voice was sharp. "Bruce Wayne is one of the richest men in Gotham."

"So are you; why do you care?"

"If we could convince him to affiliate himself with us—"

"Woah, woah, hold the phone," Jenn said sharply. "What's with 'we' and 'us'? I'm only your daughter. I'm not a business partner or accomplice or anything." Her father's sharp blue eyes had gotten that greedy gleam in them once more.

"Jenn," he said slowly, "I need you to do something for me."

"You can forget it," she said immediately.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask you," he snapped.

"I can guess. I'm not going to try and… like, seduce Bruce Wayne so that he'll look more kindly towards you. That's what you had in mind, right?" He gave her a grim glance that just confirmed her suspicions. She glared at him. "I'm not a whore, Father, whatever you might say to the contrary," she told him icily. "And if you had any sense in your head, you'd know that by coming to talk to me and try and convince me to do that, you just wrecked any chance you had of me getting to know Wayne any better."

Her little tirade finished, she sidestepped and brushed past him, but didn't even presume that she would get off that easily. Sure enough, she felt his fingers grasp at and grip her elbow with the bruising force that he always used when he wasn't getting his way. He pulled her back towards him, bringing his face down inches from hers so that his meaning would get through clearer. His eyes were shards of steel by now, darkening with anger.

"Jenn, I have to warn you," he said, his voice composed where his face was not, "Wayne would be an extremely valuable asset to my new project." She tried to pull away, but he held fast. "I always get what I want, as I proved when I attained _you,_ daughter."

"Get used to disappointment, _Dad,_ " she said coldly, not quite realizing that she was indirectly quoting _The Princess Bride_ (she would later blame Lauren for that) and tore herself from his grip as he relaxed it slightly. She left the room with him glaring after her.

**Chapter Four**

The music throbbed and pulsed, making the entire club boom and vibrate. Darkness shrouded most of the building, which was only lit by red lights on the dance floor and flashing strobes in most of the other places, which leant the darkness a surreal quality. Bodies meshed, perspired, and gyrated on the humid dance floor, spaces occasionally cleared for the fevered break-dancers.

Club Shade was officially open for business, and had been since 10:00 PM.

It was now midnight, and Jenn was getting fed-up with this entire business. The huge party showed no intention of halting; if anything, more people arrived and it grew more frenzied. Those in positions of authority as well as the businessmen who had shown up to pursue industry opportunities looked out of place in their expensive suits among the throbbing mass of youthful clubbers, dressed in the outfits best suited for dancing in their possession.

Jenn herself wore black, hoping to blend and not draw extra attention. Her curve-hugging, sleek top followed her arms tightly to the elbow before dropping off, and her pants were made of rather tight black leather—the outfit had been her third option. Her father had rejected the first two, on account of them both being too 'dumpy', as he'd put it. She'd chosen them (they were both made of loose t-shirts and jeans) so that she wouldn't attract attention and the second time he'd shortly ordered her to go put something decent for the club on or he'd do it for her. So she sulkily had—they were still furious at each other from the week before—and he'd approved of this slightly tight and very black third option.

She reached up and pulled the scrunchie from her ponytailed hair, fluffing it out slightly as the strobes caught the blonde streaks in the otherwise dark hair, and leaned back against the wall, trying to remain out of sight. She'd already been caught and asked to dance by several starry-eyed young guys, the first a skinhead punk somewhat older than she was, the last about seventeen, and the others in-between those ages, all of whom smelled faintly of alcohol—so she'd told them no as politely as possible. Most of them accepted it, but the first one kept coming back and was getting harder and harder to turn down as he had more and more to drink.

And here he came again. Jenn suppressed a mild scream of frustration as he once more and not so politely invited her to dance once more. She didn't dance—she felt like a moron out there bobbing back and forth, and tried to explain this to him, but he simply wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled, probably figuring that once she was out on the floor, she wouldn't raise anymore protests. She didn't give, and he was rather drunk, so he wasn't at his full strength anyway. Still, with the inebriation came the stubbornness, and he pulled again.

Jenn was just getting ready to punch him out when a smooth, slightly mild voice intervened.

"Is there a problem here?" She glanced over to her left to see Bruce Wayne approaching her rather quickly. The punk glared sulkily at him.

"What's it to you?"

"Not much, really. Here's your drink, darling," he told Jenn, passing her a glass. She immediately began to play along as the confused skinhead let go of her wrist.

"Thank you, sweetie," she said with a sweet smile. Bruce wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close enough to him that the punk saw his possessiveness but not so tightly that it surpassed the bounds of their game.

"I'm sorry, did you need something?" he asked the punk.

"No, man… nothing," the guy muttered, and skulked off. As soon as she was sure he was gone, Jenn pulled out of Bruce's loose grasp and looked up at him. He really was rather tall, surpassing her now that she was out of heels by about seven inches, and she definitely wasn't short.

"Thank you for that," she told him, "but I really can't talk to you." Okay, it was a bit cold—for her, at least—but she knew that if she did converse with him or even treat him as a friend, she would be playing directly into her father's hands. She couldn't let that happen.

He raised his eyebrows. "Okay… why not? You managed well enough a couple weeks ago. No, keep it," he said as she offered the drink he'd given her. She murmured a thanks and then replied.

"That's true, but that was before interaction with you would make my father happy." She turned her back to him, leaning against the railing that separated the slightly elevated bar and booths from the dance floor as she sipped from the glass. The fruity drink really was quite good—she could taste alcohol in it, but it wasn't strong enough to make her cringe, which was how she liked her alcoholic beverages if she drank them at all. She wasn't worried about drugs. She didn't figure that Bruce Wayne was the date-rape type—according to rumor, he didn't need to depend on such things.

"He didn't seem too happy when I met him the other day and asked him about you," he commented, ignoring the fact that she'd basically just told him to go away and joining her in the leaning. She glanced at him, a slightly annoyed look in her brown eyes. So _he_ had been the one to tell Alek. Bloody brilliant. She took a larger swallow from the drink. All the more reason not to talk to him—plus the fact that he was an eccentric (the voice in her head that took the form of her bizarre friend Lauren Malton muttered that this was a _good_ trait), and a rumored playboy ( _rumored_ , said the voice. Jenn told it to shut up)—she couldn't keep having this conversation.

"Yeah, well, that was because I hadn't told the leech about our former conversation at that time. As soon as he found out he came right home to encourage whatever nonexistent relationship we'd established during those five or ten minutes."

"Oh. Sorry," he said simply. She shook her head, a bit annoyed. Why _he_ had to be the one guy in the world that could apologize, she didn't know. It just made him more likeable, which wasn't something she wanted him to be.

"It's not your fault," she told him. "If anyone's, it's mine. I never should have tried to escape the crowd that day. At any rate, what's done is done and now I can't talk to you anymore." She shot a glance towards her father. He wasn't looking at her, instead talking earnestly to two of his colleagues. He didn't look happy, which probably meant he hadn't seen them.

There was a pause on Bruce's end during which he rotated so that he was leaning backwards, and Jenn was beginning to believe that he'd gotten the point and was going to leave when he spoke once more. "Why is your father encouraging this?"

"Apparently he thinks that if I become friends or whatever with you, you'll fund his project or something."

"What's his project?" he asked interestedly. She shook her head, eyes fixed on the masses of dancers.

"I don't know. Really haven't tried to find out. Knowing him, it'll be some sort of porno business or something disgusting like that." Bruce gave a soft laugh.

"There's no love lost between your father and you, is there?"

"You have no idea," she said dryly, taking a pull from the glass again.

"At least you have him," he said quietly. She glanced at him, but his gaze was on the crowd where hers had formerly been a second ago. She'd known he was an orphan, but wasn't sure of the circumstances—still wasn't.

"I don't know," she said slowly, musing. "I never really _wanted_ to know my dad, you know? Before he found me, I'd always been told that he wasn't a good person, and I was just content with that. I was happy with my mom."

"So what happened?" He switched his gaze from the dancers to hers, green eyes boring into her own. She exhaled slowly and quietly.

"Murder. Her wallet was missing, so the police think it was an act of desperation. Me, I'm not so confident in their theory." She wasn't really seeing him anymore, lost in her own thoughts.

"What do _you_ think?" he asked, looking steadily at her. She glanced back at him.

"I'm not sure anymore." She took a slightly shaky breath, and then realized something. "Hey, you tricked me!" Her eyes flashed indignantly, immediately lightening the mood. He tilted his head back slightly and let loose a brief laugh—he really did have an attractive laugh. Not that she'd noticed.

"Guilty," he said with a shrug.

"No fair," she mumbled, surveying him resentfully. Unlike the other wealthy men in the club, he didn't stick out like a sore thumb—he blended pretty well in a dark hunter green t-shirt that really enhanced his toned biceps—again, not that she'd noticed—and black slacks. Deciding that she needed a distraction so that she wouldn't keep talking to him—he really was the only engaging person other than Lydia and Ryan (a guy who worked at the stables) that she'd met since her return to Gotham—she glanced out over the crowd, towards her father. His gaze was now firmly resting on her and Bruce, an all-too-smug look on his face. Her palms suddenly itched to smack her father across his complacent mug. "Crap," she snapped.

"What is it?" Bruce asked instantly.

"My father's noticed us. No doubt he'll take this as a mind-change on my part. I am _so_ close to cussing up a blue streak that it isn't even funny." He gave that laugh again. She glanced at him. "I've got to go. I'm sorry, but I _really_ can't talk to you anymore. My father would just use it."

"No worries," he said thoughtfully as she backed away from the railing.

"Sorry," she said, a bit disconcerted. "Thanks again for the drink." He answered with a nod and she bolted.

After a moment, the model (her name was Kaitlyn, if he wasn't mistaken) that had accompanied him to the opening—one that was more insipid and self-absorbed than most of them, despite her gorgeous looks—accosted him. "Who was that?" she asked coolly, leaning calmly back against the railing and sipping at her gray goose martini.

Bruce felt the public mask slipping back on, felt his smile become cynical and his eyes harden slightly as he looked at her. "A friend," he said simply.

"A friend," she repeated, and he didn't miss the jealousy in her voice. He restrained himself from reacting with an eyeroll or something equally immature—he'd just met her yesterday. "Well, Bruce, have you forgotten that you're here with _me?"_

"Old habits die hard," he said with a smirk, hoping that it'd put her off enough to leave.

The expression did the trick, and she straightened up, glaring daggers. "Then next time, I suggest you remember to restrain yourself before drooling over other women," she fired, and walked off, leaving a rather relieved Bruce in her wake.

* * *

"You changed your mind about Wayne?"

"No," Jenn responded shortly to her probing father. Bruce had left two hours ago—she'd seen him walk out the door rather quickly, despite the confusion the club provided—and now she was trapped into a conversation with Alek, having run out of ways to avoid him.

"You seemed to be having a grand time," Alek said slyly.

"The grand time was entirely spent convincing him that I wasn't going to talk to him," lied Jenn. Alek gave her a skeptical look.

"Why are you fighting this, Jenn? The man obviously wants to know you better and I know that you aren't disinclined towards him yourself—if you help me out on the way, that's just an extra bonus. You need to—"

"Don't even _begin_ to presume you know me, Dad," Jenn muttered, her voice a lot more violent than it had been seconds earlier. "You haven't even laid eyes on me for eight years—you never took time to try and figure me out, just like you never did with Mom. I bet you don't even know when my birthday is."

"Jenn, you're being ridiculous," he said, looking angered but glancing around at the many people around them and thinking better of raising his hand against her. She tilted her chin upwards and leveled a stare at him.

"I'm gone," she said abruptly. "Have fun the rest of the night." She got up from the booth she'd been halfheartedly occupying and walked off.

"The car's not out there!" Alek snapped after her.

"I'll walk!" she yelled back, resisting the temptation to give him the one-fingered salute on the way out… even though there _were_ reporters there that _might_ catch it on camera and put it on the front page of the tabloids… hmm, wouldn't _that_ be excellent. Still, she decided that if her mom were alive, she would be shocked and appalled if anyone caught Jenn giving her father the finger on film, so she resisted.

She exited the club amongst inquisitive glances from the huge bouncers her father had hired, but ignored them, glancing back and forth. The club was only about five blocks from her home, near the outskirts—not an extremely far distance, and she really didn't believe that the valet would bring the car if asked, as she'd come in with her father and was leaving alone, so she began walking.

It was really a bit amusing. She had a truck of her own—had had one since she was able to legally drive—but she'd learned to drive in England. She was used to driving on the left side of the road, and kept worrying that she was going to crash if she drove now in Gotham. So, if she did drive, she made sure that someone was with her in the truck to prod her if she accidentally drifted left, but for the most part she either walked, was driven, or went with her father to her destination.

A block had already been eaten away by her swift strides.

And now what to do about this Wayne problem? Agitation leant extra speed to her steps. Okay, she'd only met the guy twice—but she liked him. She really couldn't help it. Of course, that didn't really help the fact that she was forbidding herself from speaking to him again, for both their sakes. If he got sucked into whatever her father had planned—and she made a mental note to find out exactly what it was—her father would make sure that he couldn't get out again.

Of course, Wayne _was_ the wealthiest man in Gotham. But then, Alek was very resourceful. Ugh—she couldn't think about this right now.

Two blocks, and she was starting to doubt the wisdom of her decision to walk. It was getting pretty dark—the streetlights had either burned out or been broken, which wouldn't surprise her—after that first day that she'd noticed the crime running rampant, she'd taken note of many vandalisms, muggings, underground drug peddling—pretty much everything you could think of, all in a week.

Three and she turned the corner to head the other five to the house. She was beginning to get that prickle at the back of her neck—the one that signified that her body was aware of something that her conscious mind had yet to pick up on. She _hated_ feeling bewildered like that. She kept going.

That was when she started picking up the heavy but fast footsteps behind her. She bit down on a curse, knowing quite well that it wouldn't be wise to panic. Her hands curled into fists, relaxed, and then tensed again, repeating themselves as she kept the rest of her body functioning, more or less, normally.

 _Four blocks._ Maybe they didn't know she lived so close and would hold off till she reached home. She wished she'd taken her cell phone—if she was talking, perhaps whoever it was would back off. Then again, maybe not.

Two hulking men came around the corner in front of her and she felt a strange sort of resignation. She already knew she was going to get attacked. There was nothing left to do but prepare.

As the men passed, she felt their hands grab her shoulders with bruising force, and she and her attackers all exploded into action.

**Chapter Five**

Jenn immediately swung around, fist at the ready, and cracked one of the men across his bald temple. He staggered slightly with the force of the blow as whoever had been following her came up behind her and seized her by the arms, half-dragging her with the assistance of the unwounded thug into the perpendicular alley, even as she kicked and struggled. One of them lost his grip on her, and she tore away, only to run into an infuriated Baldy, who snarled at her and pushed her harshly back towards his fellows. They seized her arms again on cue as Baldy advanced.

She poured all the energy and adrenaline in her body into her right arm, ripping it from her captor's grip. There was no time or flexibility to carry out any karate moves. Before he could regain his hold, she curled her hand into a tight fist and, pretending that Baldy was her punching bag, gave him a good, oldschool crack across the jaw.

The pain was too intense to ignore, and she actually paused, a shocked expression coming over her face as she bent over her fist, just barely repressing a curse as the breath rushed from her body in a gasp of pain. She'd seen the movies, but she hadn't thought that unprotected punches would be _this_ bad—she was fairly certain that she'd split all of her knuckles and quite possibly broken her hand. Quickly, though, she forced herself to focus. Baldy was still reeling from the force of the blow, slightly dazed, and her subconscious felt a quick flash of pride.

Feeling encouraged and ignoring the flaring of pain from her right knuckles, she didn't protest when the thug on her right seized her arm again, using the support they were unaware they were giving her in order to bring her feet up and kick Baldy hard in the stomach, sending him crashing to the ground. The thugs still holding on to her retained their footing.

She tried to pull away once more, but they weren't taking any chances, holding to her tightly, as Baldy, apparently winded, staggered to his feet, scowling and cursing foully. Fear shaded her face as he advanced on her, wielding a knife that he'd just snatched from somewhere on his person, and she struggled more violently against her captors.

Suddenly, both ripped her a few feet back, making her feel like she was attached to wires, and then released her. Through the pounding of blood in her ears, she might have heard them yelling in fear, but tuned it out as she backed towards the wall, trying to figure out how to take on Baldy.

He had noticed his colleagues' faltering but had returned his attention immediately to her. Snarling hideously, he slashed the knife towards her head, and she instinctively and rapidly ducked with a sound that, to her embarrassment, might have been a squeal. She heard the knife scratch against the bricks just above her head and sent up a split-second's thanks before dropping the rest of the way to her butt, leaning against the wall for support, and kicked up between his legs with her right foot, all within two seconds before he had time to recover.

This attack managed to render him powerless where the others had failed, though taking a second in which he yanked her to her feet to be effective, and he gasped and sank down slightly. Seizing her advantage, she drove her heel of her hand as hard as she could into his forehead, not wanting to risk injuring her knuckles even more, and he fell to the ground, either unconscious or pretending to be. Whichever one it was, she didn't have time to concern herself with it.

Quickly, she looked up, fully expecting to see the other two charging her and ready to at least _try_ to defend herself against them, only to see something she _really_ hadn't been prepared for.

Batman was just finishing up with the second thug, lifting him up by his shirt and throwing him with force against the brick wall, where he slid down, unconscious. The other lout was lying unconscious a few feet away. After that, the black-clad man—for, now that she saw him personally, she was pretty sure that he was fairly human—turned towards the slightly gaping Jenn.

"Find a payphone and call the police," he ordered, his voice harsh, rasping, animalistic. "Get them to take these guys in."

She shut her mouth and nodded, getting over her surprise quickly. He detached something from his belt—it looked like a gun—and pointed it towards the sky. "T-thank you," she managed to say. He simply glanced at her, shadowed in the gloom of the alley, and his head moved as if he were nodding—she couldn't be too sure. Then he pulled the trigger—something like a grappling hook shot out of the gun, and just like that, he was gone, leaving her two unconscious thugs as evidence of his ever being there in the first place.

Shaking off the shock, she glanced at all three muggers again, kicking them all a bit more viciously than necessary to ensure that they _were_ unconscious, and then went to find a phone.

* * *

Alek managed to direct a good front towards the police on the scene, but on the way home, Jenn noted his extremely stony exterior, and knew that he was going to blow up extremely soon.

It turned out that she was right. As soon as they'd entered the expansive marble foyer of their house, Alek whirled on her.

"What did you think you were _doing_?" he spat, almost literally. She returned his fierce glare, tilting her head up a few inches in order to see him eye to eye.

"Leaving the club and getting away from _you_!" she snapped in return.

"Jenn, do you understand what almost happened to you?"

"Father, do I look stupid?"

"Right now, I'm beginning to wonder. _No one_ walks the streets at night alone in Gotham City. _No one._ "

"Well, I did. Yeah, it was a stupid move, I admit that," she returned. "But it turned out fine and now I won't do it again. I want to go to bed now."

"Jenn, we aren't finished with this," he hissed.

"Well, then you'll have to follow me around," she said, turning away and stalking towards one of the large first-story bathrooms, "because my knuckles are starting to drip blood and they need a bandage."

" _Your_ knuckles?" he demanded. "Why would _your_ knuckles hurt?"

"Because I hit one of them," she said, suppressing a sigh as she realized that, despite the fact that her comment about following her around was _meant_ to be degrading, he was indeed trailing behind.

"Wait, I thought you said Batman knocked them all unconscious."

"No, I said that Batman took them out. I didn't say he beat them _all_ up; I took care of one of the guys myself."

"You told the police—"

"You think they would have believed me? Look, Dad, I'm not going to look like some cheap damsel looking for fifteen minutes of fame. They wanted to hear that Batman had taken care of them all, so I just hid some of the truth from them. Simple as that." They'd reached the bathroom, and Jenn flipped on the lights and began searching through the cabinets for bandages. Alek leaned on the wall behind her.

"So it really was Batman? Not just you, making something up?" Jenn looked at him in brief disbelief, a wry corner of her mind choosing this exact moment to whisper that at least this incident had distracted him from Bruce Wayne, for however long.

"Are you retarded or something?" He narrowed his eyes at her. She ignored it. "At first you thought that Batman had taken them all out, and then you were amazed to find that I'd knocked one of them out as well; now you're thinking that I did it all?"

"I never said that; don't jump to conclusions, Jenn." She snorted softly as she found the first aid kit in one of the many cabinets, bringing it out and placing it on the marble-topped counter, turning on the cold water. "Maybe someone else helped you—or maybe you _found_ them unconscious and decided to make it a big publicity stunt." She growled slightly, though whether it was in anger at her father's words or pain at putting her hand under water was unknown. "You know this will probably be in the newspaper tomorrow because it was you, right?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," she admitted through grit teeth, pulling her fist from beneath the cold stream and dabbing at it to dry it with tissue paper.

"It'll probably be blown way out of proportion," he told her.

"Are you _trying_ to provoke me?" she demanded, pulling the small bottle of alcohol from the kit and soaking two cotton balls in the stuff. He paused to amusedly watch her hiss in pain as she pressed the alcohol to the split-open skin of her knuckles, and she glared at him.

"Not in general, though it's a nice bonus," he told her languidly and frankly. She simply shot a glare at him, pulling the cotton off her knuckles and tossing it in the trash can beside the counter before examining her hand. It looked pretty bad—raw and split, as broken skin had a penchant to look that way.

"Screw it," she growled, reaching in the kit for some gauze. Alek looked amused.

"I do believe that's the most inappropriate thing you've said since you returned." She tossed him an annoyed glance.

"Just because I don't see fit to cuss you out whenever I want doesn't mean I don't think it," she told him, matching his bluntness. He chuckled, making her even more ticked as she wrapped the gauze tightly around her wounded hand. "And now I can't beat the snot out of the punching back for at least a week," she complained out loud, shooting a glare at her father as if it were his fault.

"What pain and suffering you must be going through," he commented. Her bandaging finished, she shut the first aid kit with a light clang and glared at him for a full minute. He returned the gaze, unperturbed.

"I'm going to bed," she said abruptly, replacing the kit and passing him to head upstairs. Alek laughed at her.

* * *

If Jenn's knuckles had been sore beforehand, they ached like the devil the next day. She could barely bend her fingers without the offended skin sending sudden flashes of pain to her brain in protest.

Lydia seemed amused when Jenn surfaced in the kitchen for breakfast, resting her right, gauze-wrapped hand a bit more gingerly than the other on the cool, soothing counter. It actually felt rather nice if she turned her hand upside down and rested the offended knuckles against the chilly marble countertop. Jenn was just beginning to notice how fond her father was of marble.

"I wouldn't like to look on the man that caused that," Lydia said, nodding at Jenn's hand. The brunette got a small smirk on her face.

"I feel proud of myself, actually," she admitted. "I wasn't quite sure I could take on a guy that size. Of course, he probably wasn't expecting it or he'd have been more prepared."

"I feel proud of you, too," Lydia said with a grin, her teeth an arc of flashing white in her dark face. "You've faced your first mugger and come out on top—that _has_ to promise good things in the future."

"Maybe," Jenn said, then shook her head briefly. "If it wasn't for Batman, though, I'd probably be dead right now."

"You _did_ see him, then?" Lydia questioned, looking acutely at her young charge with near-black eyes.

"Yeah, I did, and I really don't know where the reporters get off," Jenn said with a bit more intensity than she'd first intended to show. Lydia raised her eyebrows and Jenn sighed, resting her forehead against her unwounded left hand. "I'm just saying…" she said quietly, her tone much calmer. "The guy saved my life and he's getting all this terrible press. They make fun of him, like he's someone to be ridiculed. He should do something to make them take him seriously—kill one of them, for example."

"Surely you don't think that," Lydia said.

"No, I don't," sighed Jenn. "I'm just really grateful, that's all." She sighed and tapped at her chin lightly with her manicured fingers before shaking her head. "You know what, I'm not all that hungry."

"Are you sure, Miss Jenn?" Lydia inquired concernedly.

"Yeah," Jenn said, flashing a brief smile. "I think I'll just grab an orange. Is my dad around?"

"I think he left about a half hour ago," Lydia answered, looking slightly troubled at Jenn's choice. The brunette gave her a reassuring look as she replied.

"Good. I want to head out to the stables today since I can't beat up on my punching bag and I don't want him tagging along just to annoy me."

It seemed slightly absurd that a billionaire with better things to do with his time would cancel his earlier appointments in order to follow his daughter around all day for the sheer purpose of annoying her. Sadly, though, it was the truth. Alek would think nothing of doing the exact same thing in order to aggravate his daughter—he'd followed her to the stables earlier in the week, and she hadn't ridden any because she would have had to take him along and his lack of knowledge when it came to horses could prove harmful. _He_ , however, had had a grand time watching her get more and more irritated.

She grabbed an orange on her way out, bidding Lydia farewell before changing into jeans, riding boots, and a solid black graphic tee—she was aware that jodhpurs would probably be more appropriate, but as this was neither a lesson nor a show, she forwent them. Grabbing her keys and tucking a cell phone into a pocket, she went out to her truck, deciding that she'd get on well enough and remember to drive on the right side.

Pulling out of her dad's massive garage, she turned onto the road and then got out her cell phone, dialing in Ryan's number. He picked up on the second ring.

"Ryan Rowe," he answered cheerfully, his deep-voiced southern accent making her smile—it reminded her of her mother's family.

"Hey, Ryan, it's Jenn."

"Redgrove?"

"Yeah. How many Jenns do you know?" she asked teasingly.

"A few," he replied with a laugh.

"Right… well, how many that sound like me?" She did indeed have a distinctive accent, slightly southern, but eight years in England had influence as well, not to mention the six years spent in Gotham, the result a unique blend of the three.

"Point taken," he replied amusedly. "Whatchya need?"

"Just wanted to warn you that I'm coming out to the stable."

"Uh-oh. Should I warn everyone to run and hide?"

"Not funny," she said, but she was laughing.

"I'm teasing ya, Jenn. It's still a kinda weird day to be coming out to the stables—it's overcast and all."

"I need to get out of the house."

"I'm just sayin', that's all. Want me to pick you out a horse?"

"No, thanks—I can do that myself. I just wanted to give you fair warning." He chuckled.

"Warning taken. The stables might be deserted when you get here, though."

"That's it, you snot, I'm hanging up on you." She heard his laugh as she cut the call, and felt an unconscious grin work itself over her face. That over, she paid attention to her driving, making sure to stay in the right lane, driving towards the stables as a light rain started.

**Chapter Six**

Nocturne Stables was yet another establishment owned by Alek Redgrove. Among the wealthy of Gotham, it wasn't overly popular—neither the tycoons nor their wives or children were interested in donning common clothing in order to ride mostly unpredictable animals. Among the middle-class, though, it was rather well-liked. Girls from ages ten to thirty were the most common around the stables, although guys from that age group could be spotted frequently as well, and members of both genders younger and older ventured there too.

It was located a few miles from the outskirts of Gotham, where city and countryside blended—close to Wayne Manor, as a matter of fact. Jenn enjoyed not only the company of the horses but getting away from the cement jungle that was Gotham City—she missed the countryside of England, where the Maltons—the family she'd lived during holidays during her sojourn in the country—lived. That was where she'd learned to ride, taught by Lauren Malton, who'd taken lessons since she was six and was a professional. Not wanting to be laughed at by Lauren, she'd taken some falls but determinedly worked hard on it, eventually getting to the point where they were spending all hours of daylight on horseback. In that first summer, she'd grown very good at it, and in the following years mastered it.

Maybe that was the reason for the smile tickling at her face as she pulled into the gravel drive that led to the stables, pastures filled with horses on either side of her. The rain had stopped, leaving behind clouds of both dark and light gray, which threatened to spill over any second—but for now, she was safe. She parked and got out of the truck, tucking her keys into a pocket as she strode towards the main building.

She found Ryan Rowe mucking out a stall, dressed in jeans, and boots, spiky light blonde hair standing—he'd shed his shirt in favor of the hot work, revealing a very toned frame. As he looked up, grinning and meeting her brown eyes with his bright blue, she had to admit that many women would probably worship the ground he'd stepped on with his mucky boots.

"Hey," he greeted her.

"Hey," she replied, glancing around. "Don't they have some kind of dress code here?"

"Bite me, rich kid," he said with a smirk. She laughed at him.

"Where is everyone?"

"I told you they were gonna scram, didn't I?" he replied, his deep Mississippi drawl only accentuating the mischief that was palpable in his tone. She rolled her eyes, but was grinning back—Ryan's smile was infectious.

"Very funny. I was thinking I'd take Trigger out today, is that okay?"

"Yeah," he said, forehead furrowing slightly. "Yeah—that's a good idea. Trigger hasn't been out in a while. He might be a bit rowdy, though."

"That's fine," she said with a shrug. "I assume those saddles I brought from England are still in the tack room?" she inquired, turning to go.

"Unless I 'accidentally' gave one to Princess for a chew toy," he said, naming a burly bulldog who was one of the many animals other than horses to make their homes in the barn.

"You _better_ not!" she called over her shoulder. She heard him laugh after her.

Her saddles—one western, one English, were safe from Princess's powerful mouth, despite Ryan's teasing, and after a moment she decided to go with western, selecting the matching bridle. Trigger was in his stall, watching her with wary blue eyes. The black Orlov-Trotter gelding looked as if he'd already been groomed for the day, so she skipped that part of the process.

Within a few minutes, he was tacked up and warmed up, and she pulled herself up on his back after claiming a hard hart and settled into the saddle, adjusting to his height of exactly 16hh—she'd ridden the gelding once before, but he was still taller than most horses she'd ridden. She walked him out on the path, attentive ears picking up the comfortable sound of squeaking leather. Ryan had come to see her go, having donned his surprisingly clean blue tee, and looked up at her, eyes slit against the sky—overcast as it was, there was still that brightness that came with the area where the sun hid.

"You watch it out there, Jenn," he told her, surprisingly serious for Ryan Rowe. "Crime tends to stick inside the city, but occasionally it'll venture out, and with it kinda dark and noisy like this…"

"You're worried about me? I'm touched," she said with a laugh.

"I'm dead serious," he told her. "Don't think that 'cause I'm a country boy I don't know what's goin' on in Gotham." At that, he sent a pointed glance at her hand that made her suddenly tighten it around the reins, sending a fresh wave of pain over her knuckles.

"Right," she said with a nod. "Thanks, Ryan. I'll look after myself and Trigger as well."

"If you want me to come—"

"I'll be fine," she said with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it." He gave her one last unconvinced look and then retreated into the barn again without another word.

Jenn tipped her head to the sky as it gave an ominous rumble, but the only lightning in sight was sheet lightning, way off in the distance, lighting the clouds briefly on the horizon. She figured that the storm wouldn't turn too serious for about one or two hours—it'd been brewing all night and wasn't quite ready to spill over—and she could get some good riding time in-between. As soon as it started to look like it might get too threatening, she'd turn back—if only for Trigger's sake. She'd always been a bit reckless when it came to thunderstorms—she blamed it on her mom. Maggie had loved storms too, and Kentucky had been hit by a lot of them while she was pregnant. Only the fact that she was carrying a child kept her from going outside during the tempest, but according to her she would stand next to the door or sit next to the window and just watch the rain gust by.

Ten minutes into the ride, the rain started to pour—it had been falling before, just not heavily, only a light spritz. Trigger was impatient, prancing and wanting to go faster than the trot she was keeping him in, so with a shrug she relaxed the taut reigns and signaled for a gallop. The energetic six-year-old was happy to oblige.

To lessen the sting of the rain in her face, Jenn bent down, keeping control but maintaining a position with her upper body that was almost parallel with Trigger's back. On his part, the gelding dealt very well with the rain—it hurt far less than the bugs that normally picked at him, bugs that had gone to hide during the rain.

They turned a curve and almost ran over Bruce Wayne.

Quickly and slightly startled, she pulled for a halt, perhaps a bit harder than she should have due to her surprise. Trigger responded, pulling up abruptly and voicing his dismay at having his run interrupted with a snort. Jenn reached down to stroke the horse's wet neck soothingly, an apology for not being more careful, and he calmed eventually under her touch.

All the while, Bruce, who was protected from the rain for the most part by some sort of dark-colored, long coat, kept cautious and mildly surprised eyes on her. She immediately felt self-conscious. This was _not_ the way she would prefer being seen—especially by Bruce Wayne. Soaking jeans and shirt—she gave a moment's thanks that she'd had the presence of mind not to wear white, the black suiting the rain rather well—hair rather less-than-perfect beneath the black hard hat and what makeup she had had on probably washed away by now, unless that waterproof eyeliner really did work.

"Bruce," she said, trying and failing to keep the surprise out of her voice as Trigger shifted beneath her, whipping his tail through the air against the rain. "I didn't know the trails extended to your land."

"Oh, they don't," he told her. "I sometimes wander off my property—it's kind of an absent-minded thing. I don't always think about it."

"You walk in the rain?" she inquired, taking in his wet hair and the drops that clung to his face.

"You _ride_ in the rain?" he countered, sending a pointed glance towards Trigger, who was watching him with slight rims of distrust around his eyes. She chuckled, a bit more at ease.

"Point taken." She decided to alight from the horse, as he was getting restless with her on his back—they should be riding, shouldn't they? Of course, there was also the fact that western saddles were much easier to mount from the ground than English. She dismounted nimbly and then lifted the reins over his head, standing to the left of the gelding and unclipping her hat, letting it hang from her free hand. "So what makes a billionaire so restless that he decides to wander around in the rain?"

"Why do you ask?" he inquired, inviting her with a gesture to walk. She nodded in agreement and started walking about a foot behind him, Trigger following her aimlessly.

"Curiosity. My father probably could think of nothing better on a rainy day than sitting in his counting house, counting out his money. Or tormenting his lackeys. I'm not sure which gives him more pleasure."

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully. It was his pensive tone that made her look twice at him.

"What?" she asked, figuring that there was more to it than 'Hmm'.

"You don't offer much information about yourself, do you?" he said in response. She lifted her eyebrows.

"Neither do you," she said, defending herself.

"You tend to turn it towards your father eventually, and it makes me wonder…"

She turned slightly to look at him as they walked, her gaze curious, but before she could speak, Trigger suddenly pushed his nose into her back, knocking her forward about twelve inches. Both she and Bruce turned back to look at him inquisitively. He just returned their expressions with an unperturbed look, and Bruce glanced at Jenn, who rolled her eyes and then returned her attention to the path. "Wonder what?" she asked.

"If you're just trying to divert my attention to him or if you really think about him that much." She stared at him for a few seconds.

"Was that an insult?" she asked.

"Probably."

"Oh." She paused. "I guess I really haven't thought about it much. That he kind of rules my life, I mean," she clarified. "I mean, I think about it, but not in the sense that all I do is complain about him." She realized what she'd said and started to look disgusted. "Crap, all I do is complain about him!" Bruce laughed at her and she shook her head. "I can't believe myself. You know, I'm usually not this much of a wimp."

"Really."

"Really. Especially not around Lauren—she's my friend back in England, and she's really weird. She always makes me do these crazy things."

"Makes you?"

"Not really, but I do them anyway to keep up with her."

"Daredevil peer pressure?" She laughed.

"That's a good way of putting it." Trigger pushed her again. She glanced back at him. "I don't think we're going fast enough for the whiny pony back here." Without a word, Bruce picked up the pace, and she immediately followed suit. "This is good."

"Glad to hear it. What's that?" he inquired, narrowing his eyes in the direction of her right hand, the gauze wrapping of which was now getting quite soaked and swelling up as a result, dripping rain that the saturated fabric couldn't hold down her fingers. She followed his gaze and flushed slightly despite the rain.

"Oh. This. I hit someone."

"You hit someone?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows.

"Yeah." At his expression, she was quick to defend herself. "It was a mugger, though, so it was okay."

"I thought people were carrying mace in this day and age."

"Didn't have any on hand."

"That could be a problem." He looked rather amused, and she smiled at him. "So what happened?"

"It was last night," she said slowly, sounding a bit thoughtful. "About two hours after you left the club, I decided that it was getting a little too crazy for me, so I just escaped. I was attacked by three of them and for a while I was really scared. Then, I managed to punch their leader, and eventually took him on. The others were… taken care of." Bruce lifted a questioning eyebrow, but she glanced at the path instead of at him. "You'll probably think I'm a loony, but Batman lent me his help. If it weren't for him, I might be dead or worse right about this time."

"He helped you, too, huh?"

"Yeah." She directed a glance his way. "He's lent you some assistance at some point in time?"

"No," he responded. "I've seen him helping other people, though. People who needed it."

"You watched a known vigilante working and didn't turn him in?"

"Would you?"

"Of course not!" she said, shaking her head fervently. "The man saved my life. What kind of ingrate would—never mind. I was just interested in hearing your opinion on the subject." She lifted an eyebrow. "According to my father, you're a bit cynical of the entire business."

The rain continued to pelt them, but they ignored it.

"I was when he first started this all," he said slowly. "Now, I'm not as sure."

"Oh, yeah," she said, a smirk on her face. "You were a wild one back then." He gave her a small grin. "Now, though, you're getting soft in your old age."

"Watch it," he said warningly, but his eyes—earlier green, now brown—glimmered with amusement. "It won't be long before you're as ancient as I am."

"I'll be twenty-three in a couple of days. I don't think I'll have to worry about lying about my age for a few years yet."

"Your father would be ashamed."

She laughed, and Trigger decided to voice his disapproval that she was having fun without him with a high-pitched neigh. She turned to glance at the gelding and rolled her eyes. "Pony-boy here wants to go. I really should get back—it sounds like this is turning into a pretty bad thunderstorm."

In unison the two tilted their heads up to look at the sky, eyes shaded against the pouring rain, and then back at each other.

"I agree," Bruce said. "Alfred is probably preparing a lecture on the evils of rain in autumn as we speak." Jenn laughed again.

"Good for Alfred," she said, heading back to Trigger's left side, restoring her hat to her head, putting the reins over his head, pushing her foot into the stirrup and pulling herself on the saddle. Bruce turned to watch the movements. "If it weren't for him, who else would tell you that it's absolutely barbaric to wander around in the rain?" She affected a disapproving look from her new high perch and he smiled.

"Good point."

"Of course it is," she said, fighting a grin and losing. "On a separate issue, you do realize that if you tell my father about this incident that I'll have to come after you with… a table lamp, and Batman _won't_ save you, right?" She was teasing. They both knew it. She didn't believe that she could take him on for even a minute, not with the strength that undoubtedly lay in those arms of his. Still, he played along.

"I wouldn't risk it."

"I'll see you around, Bruce."

"You probably will."

She decided not to even try to decipher the cryptic comment. Instead, she turned Trigger and let him resume his quick pace as he was dying to do, quickly coming on the curve that she'd nearly run into Bruce on and taking it, moving out of his range of sight.

**Chapter Seven**

That night, Jenn couldn't sleep, which was rather an unusual occurrence. Normally, she could drop off relatively quickly after a full day of physically fighting the punching bag (or a particularly tricky horse that enjoyed resting his weight on her when she tried cleaning his hooves) and verbally fighting her father, but tonight, her knuckles were paining her—the scabs that had formed kept breaking whenever she curled her fingers, which she was now beginning to realize was more often than she'd ever taken notice of before—and her mind was plagued with thoughts that she'd rather not go over. Unfortunately, the encounter from earlier that day was forcing said thoughts to the front of her mind, where previously she'd been able to keep them at bay.

 _Bruce Wayne._ Jenn sighed reluctantly, burying her head a bit further in her pillow. He was, unfortunately—or perhaps not so unfortunately, but she refused to let her mind go into that possibility—the person on whom her mind was centered. _If Lauren knew about this, she'd never let me live it down._

However much Jenn tried to imagine otherwise, Bruce was becoming a friend, if he wasn't already. This wasn't exactly a good thing, since her father was encouraging any type of relationship with the billionaire—which could only mean that Alek intended to loop Bruce in with his schemes, as he'd as good as told her before the Club Shade incident. She couldn't help liking him, though.

It seemed that unusual people had a certain magnetism to her—it started with Lauren, of course, as well as several other… strange… people in England, and Bruce was the latest of these. Oh, he seemed normal enough, but he wasn't.

For one thing, she suspected he was a great deal more intelligent than he let on. People—including her father—viewed him as a happy-go-lucky playboy who'd only made it through school by bribing the professors. She'd observed differently. He was perceptive, quiet unless he had something to say, and attentive to his surroundings. Though showing up to social events with an entire showcase of models and actresses, she read boredom in his eyes and wondered if she was the only one to see this—or what if she was just seeing things that weren't there? And as for the happy-go-lucky part, she seriously doubted he was anything of the sort. Bruce was not a whimsical man, nor was he particularly happy, she observed. He didn't seem cut out for the typical life of a billionaire.

And then, of course, there was his immense strength. Jenn figured he could crush her within five seconds if he ever tried, with his arms alone. How did someone even _get_ that strong? It bewildered her. She knew he'd disappeared for a long period of time—shortly before she'd been shipped off to England, as a matter of fact—and guessed that that must have been the time in which he'd gathered such strength… but why? She doubted that it was just to look good.

And he _did_ look good. Jenn was certain there was a law against being that dangerous combination of sexy, unspoiled, and rich at the same time—not that the latter had much appeal to her, and never had since she'd been introduced into her father's world—and if there _was_ no law, there _should_ be. His voice was always faultlessly calm, quiet, and mellow. He always looked perfectly collected, as if he knew exactly what he was doing all the time, occasionally making her feel a bit inept in front of him—she wasn't _completely_ clumsy, but next to him she might as well have her foot pushed into her mouth all the time. Every sentence he spoke, every smile he gave was perfectly calculated.

Stupid attraction. _It_ should be outlawed as well, especially when it was this dangerous. She had no idea what her father was planning, but she could guarantee anyone that it wasn't good. Giving in to this magnetism to Bruce Wayne wouldn't be a wise move, and on that note she rolled over and buried her head in her pillow, trying (and failing) not to think any more of him that night.

* * *

The next day, Jenn stood next to her seated father, wearing mid-rise jeans and a camouflage racerback tank top if only for the fact that it would clearly annoy him. Everyone around here looked professional and businesslike in their black and navy suits, him included, and she stuck out like a sore thumb—just as she liked. She wanted it clear that she didn't want to be here.

She was here for 'training'. Alek had informed her that by Christmas he expected her to take over a good amount of the business management, and this was preparation for that. She wasn't going to lie and say that she didn't find many of the aspects of business interesting, but equal amounts were boring, and the fact that most of the boring parts were spent in his company didn't make her all that eager, either.

Redgrove Incorporated manufactured steel. It fit Alek well—though Jenn still hadn't gotten over the fact that one of the businesses alongside the main company was a cosmetics production. _Fantastically You_ was one of the top selling brands of—well, any kind of makeup you could think of. It struck Jenn as hilarious whenever she heard Alek talking about lipstick.

Of course, the main office wasn't like the steel mills. It was very, very tall, very shiny, and very cushy. It made Jenn dizzy to stand at the base of the building and look straight up. She'd never been on the roof, though secretly she wanted to at some point in time. She'd never been really terrified of heights, but wanted to test that lack of fear fifty stories up.

Right now, Alek was yelling at one of his top executives from behind his polished mahogany desk on the next to the last floor on the building, her standing to the side and observing. It had been going on for at least fifteen minutes—if Lauren were here, she'd have started a betting pool. _Ten bucks on the guy getting fired after another ten minutes of ranting._

She sighed and crossed her arms. True, the executive had made a very elementary mistake, but it was something forgivable. Unfortunately, her soft release of breath attracted Alek's attention, and he glanced at her mid-sentence, cutting himself off and raising his thick eyebrows in her direction.

"Something to add, Jenn?"

She dropped her arms, letting them hang at her sides despite feeling self-conscious. "Is this necessary?"

The eyebrows lifted higher. "Excuse me?"

"I asked if this was necessary," Jenn repeated, knowing full well he was asking for clarification and taking savage pleasure in holding it out of his reach. Unfortunately, Alek dealt with manipulators often, being a grand one himself, and he glanced at the exec.

"You want me to cut straight to the chase and fire Mr. Chapman immediately?"

"That's not what I meant," snapped Jenn, crossing her arms again in agitation. So help her, she was _not_ going to be the cause of someone getting fired.

"Then please," said Alek, gesturing towards Chapman before lacing his fingers and staring at her. "Explain."

She shot an uncertain glance at the executive before settling into a hip. He wanted to embarrass her, make her look like she didn't have a clue what she was talking about. She was stricken suddenly with a flare of determination. She wasn't going to let that happen. She knew this stuff; she'd just have to prove it. "True, the mistake Mr. Chapman made was like something an intern might do on a _bad_ day, but it _is_ redeemable. So he ticked off the wrong client. You're freaking out over that? You want to _fire_ him now?"

"The Dentle Company is one of our most profitable customers," Alek said, raising his eyebrows. "If they take their business elsewhere, we'd be losing an easy million a year—and while that doesn't seem like much now—" _Not much? I could live for the rest of my life on a million!_ Jenn's mind contributed, "—every penny counts."

"So? Fix it."

"How do you propose we do that?"

"Find a negotiator. A good one. Send him in to soothe them over, and offer a generous discount on their next order to calm them down. They're regular clients—they got their feathers ruffled, sure, but they're not going to give up a good thing just to spite a single employee. I guarantee that they'll be back in no time."

He stared at her unblinkingly for a few moments. Though caught off-guard, she tried not to blink, either.

 **Hey, Jenn, women blink almost twice as much as men** — **did you know that?**

 _Shut up, Lauren,_ she told her brain, grinding her teeth at the annoying inner voice. Her eyes were starting to burn.

Alek looked away.

 _Yes! Score one for the Jenn-girl!_ She suppressed the surge of triumph with difficulty.

"You may be excused," he said curtly to Chapman. The man left quickly, reminding Jenn of a dog with its tail between its legs.

Silence held uncomfortable reign for a few minutes between Alek and Jenn, and then finally he leaned back in his luxurious chair, steepling his fingers. "Good, Jenn," he said slowly. "Very good."

These words sent an uncomfortable feeling shooting through Jenn, spreading from her scalp to the tips of her fingers and toes. He wasn't supposed to approve of anything she did. He never had. For him to alter that now was… unsettling. She'd never desired his appreciation—that hadn't changed. She shut her eyes for a second, shaking off the creepiness. By the time her lids lifted again, Alek was leaning forward, pressing down on the intercom.

"Madeline," he said, calling his secretary, "has Wayne arrived yet?"

_Wayne?!_

"Yes, Mr. Redgrove," came the tinny voice in immediate response.

"Very good. Send him up."

"Bruce Wayne? _Here_?" said Jenn as soon as his finger lifted from the button, aware of her panic but unable to do anything about it.

"Yes," said Alek calmly, hiding his amusement well. "His company and mine interact. I asked him to come here today."

" _Why?_ "

"Business, Jenn," Alek said with a smirk that she hoped she hadn't inherited, it was so intolerable. "Purely business." His eyebrows lifted in faux concern. "Is it upsetting you? If you like, I could resched—oh, no, can't do that today. Too busy this next week."

She glared at him. It was times like these that she believed it was biologically impossible for him to be her father. He smirked in response, knowing full well that she couldn't do anything about it and basking in the triumph.

When Bruce came in, she had her back to her father and him, staring out the window and biting her fingernails, hoping to avoid speaking to him. She didn't want to be rude, nor did she want her father to think they were civil acquaintances. Both left her in rather deep pits—one deprived her of a friend, one deprived her of her sanity. She didn't have much faith in her acting ability, either.

Unfortunately, Alek wasn't going to let her off that easily. After rising to shake Bruce's hand, he turned towards her. "I believe you've met my daughter Jenn?"

She didn't turn, hearing Bruce's baritone sound from behind her. "Yes, we've… crossed paths once or twice." His voice was dispassionate. She was grateful for that.

"Jenn, you remember Mr. Wayne?"

It was an indirect order. _Turn around or suffer for it._ She obeyed, forcing a smile that she tried to make appear unflustered. "Just a bit." She gave a cool nod to Bruce. He responded likewise.

"Good, good," said Alek, sounding satisfied. "Jenn, would you mind—"

"Excuse me for just a minute," she said quickly, and before he could respond fairly darted out of the office.

Once in the hallway, she looked around swiftly. Spotting a stairway, she bolted for it and hiked up one more floor before emerging on the roof. Slamming the door shut behind her, she leaned against it in relief, ducking her head.

After a minute passed, she looked up and around curiously. It was much like the skyscraper rooftops in movies, no hint of the long fall just beyond. Quickly, she strode across till she was about one foot from the edge, she paused, wondering if she should really glance over. If just looking up at the building made her dizzy… no telling what looking over the side down fifty stories would do.

For safety, she got to her knees, as crouching was unsteady enough. She shuffled forward and then, resting her arms on the barrier that lined all four sides of the roof, glanced over the side.

She immediately wished she hadn't.

 _I'm not afraid of heights._ Try saying that when you're looking off the edge of a skyscraper. She jerked back quickly… and then curiosity won and she looked over again, concentrating on feeling her surroundings. Her knees were resting on the solid roof. Her arms were clinging to the barrier. There was no way she could fall.

Once her mind had gotten the picture, she began taking in the sights. The cars looked like tiny little people down there, and she could barely _see_ the real people, just little black dots. It was crazytown revisited, but still a little fun. Now that the original phobia was overcome, this could become one of her favorite places. Definitely preferable to her dad's office.

The noise of the door to the roof opening made her turn her head quickly, and she was stunned to see—not a caretaker or suicidal employee (it didn't take much to want to throw yourself off a roof in this place)—but Bruce Wayne, immaculately dressed in a black suit, not a hair out of place.

"Not going to jump, are you?" he asked conversationally, shutting the door behind him. She raised her eyebrows.

"Thinking about it. Maybe I need someone to push me," she said, and then blinked. "Why are you here?"

He could have come back with a snarky comment, but gave her a straight answer instead. "Our business was wrapped up pretty quickly. I'm supposed to be on the elevator downstairs, but figured I might find you up here."

"How'd you come to that conclusion?" she asked, getting to her feet and quickly moving away from the edge lest a stray gust of wind carry her over the side. Call her paranoid, but _she_ wasn't going to be a greasy smear of blood and teeth on the pavement!

He shrugged. "You had to get away, judging by your quick exit. Can't do that when you're inside." She grimaced.

"That obvious?"

"I doubt you could have cleared the room faster if your pants were on fire." She snorted at that.

"Thanks for that; I feel much better now." He shrugged with a small smile, and she put her hands on her hips. "Do you think he suspected anything?"

"Not unless he's having you tailed."

"Huh. That wouldn't really surprise me." She paused, and there was a moment's silence between them before she spoke up, nearly timid. "So… are we friends now?" She studied her toes, unwilling to appear desperate. Despite the entire father thing she'd have to dodge around, she really was in hopeless need of friends in Gotham. She was more a solitary person than not, but there was only so far she could go.

"Well, that depends." His voice was unusually serious. She lifted her eyes in surprise. "Are you after my money?" She studied him carefully and decided he was just teasing.

"Isn't it the conniving girlfriends after the money?"

"Who knows?" he asked, the twinkle in his eyes becoming more and more evident. "You could be plotting to seduce me."

"Pfft," she said in mock scorn, lowering her eyebrows. "No way. You're not worth that."

"Oh, really?"

"Really. My dad's a billionaire; you think I'm going to go for another billionaire? No way… you'd have to be a gazillionaire." He chuckled.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Great." She smiled, but it faded in minutes. "I can't stay up here. Dad's bound to send someone in a few minutes." He nodded to show that he understood.

Nodding in return, she passed him to head to the door, but just before putting her hand on the knob she turned back, twisting her fingers self-consciously. "Bruce?"

"Hmm?" He looked at her attentively.

Her finger-twisting became fierce. "Um—thanks." She gave him a quick smile before pulling open the door and disappearing, her footsteps echoing on the metal stairs before the door shut again.

**Chapter Eight**

It was when Alek asked Jenn to have lunch with him two weeks later that she began to really, really think that there was something going on with him. Perhaps other fathers and daughters went to lunch together every opportunity they got, but Alek Redgrove wasn't a typical father. She didn't think she'd ever gone out to eat with him for pleasure—scratch that thought, she _knew_ she'd never gone out to eat with him for pleasure. Dining with Alek was not a pleasant experience. True, his table manners were perfect, but the conversation was alternately petty and cutting. She might have thought it was for her twenty-third birthday, which had passed the week before, but she hadn't mentioned it to him for the very reason that she didn't think this lunch thing was a private commemoration: if he'd known, he'd have made the thing into a gigantic soirée that in addition to making her miserable would be a good business opportunity for him.

Still, he'd made it quite clear that it wasn't a request—she was coming with him whether she wanted it or not. For a few moments she had played with the idea of dressing in sweatpants and a t-shirt just to piss him off, but decided against it. Alek had ways of showing his displeasure that she didn't particularly enjoy.

So here they were, her dressed in long, airy white skirt and a beige peasant blouse, blonde-brown hair pulled back in a clip but for the absent escapee strand, him in the usual suit, in a restaurant that probably charged $200 for a crouton. Her menu didn't have the prices, though, so she didn't even have the luxury of laughing hysterically over the obscene cost.

"What do you want?" She glanced up to see Alek sending a cool stare her way. She set down the menu, which probably cost a good $150 itself. This restaurant was insane. She was so used to the small pubs the Maltons frequented in England and the faint memory of the steakhouses down in Kentucky and Georgia that this was all strange.

"I find that I'm not all that hungry all of a sudden." She wanted so badly to use the words 'lost my appetite', but that would be just asking for it. The statement she'd just made was bad enough. He shot her an annoyed glance and ordered her the same thing that he was having—fois gras. She didn't comment that she'd had the same once before and had nearly puked thinking that she was eating that adorable little duck on Tom and Jerry. Why bother? He was determined, and it was coming out of his pocket anyway.

A few seconds after he'd given the order arrogantly to their waiter, his phone rang. He got up without excusing himself and strode off to some secluded section, leaving Jenn by herself, much to her cynical relief.

Boredly, she rested her chin on her palm and drummed at her mouth with her fingertips. She was glad that Alek was gone, but at the same time, curious. What, exactly, was his motive? Was he trying to get on her good side so that she'd cooperate with his scheme? And that reminded her—what _was_ his scheme, this project that he kept alluding to, but always kept so vague?

Lifting her troubled dark head, she glanced across the room and her brown eyes locked with the bored-looking greens that belonged to Bruce Wayne. One of her light eyebrows darted up briefly, wondering if her father had known that he would be here at this time, but she decided against it. If Alek had known that Bruce was present, he would have maneuvered them closer to him, spoken to him by now. However, the coincidence did seem strange… she shook herself mentally and offered a half-smile, conscious that her father could show up at any second. Bruce nodded briefly, returning the gesture, the boredom momentarily disappearing, and then glanced away again at the same time she did, returning his polite attention to his date, whose back was to her—she could see enough to tell that the woman had a beautiful body, with a perfect caramel shade of skin and light brown hair that fell stylishly around her shoulders—she tamped down the unsettling feeling of resentment lifting in her, knowing that she had no right to feel it as she looked back at her menu.

Just in time, too, for Alek was coming back. He looked severely peeved as he took his seat across from her, and her eyebrow climbed upwards once more.

"Problem?" she asked.

"Nothing I can't sort out eventually," he replied, sounding snappish. She didn't push—it wasn't as if she cared all that much.

There was a moment's silence before she realized that this moment was as good as any to try and find out exactly what he was doing. "Dad, what's this project you keep talking about?" He gave her a surprised and suspicious look. She pushed an expression of innocence over her face. "Well, I overreacted earlier when you told me what you wanted me to do, and thinking about it, I keep thinking that it might be because you didn't fill me in on what you were doing. So…"

"What I'm doing is really none of your business," he said, his tone clipped and guarded. "If you're going to get Wayne on our side, do it, but don't pry." He sent a narrowed-eyed gaze her way, and she ignored him, gazing into space without a by-your-leave.

_That certainly went well._

Maybe manipulative didn't suit her. Of course, she hadn't been all that subtle, and Alek wasn't a stupid man—although he certainly seemed ignorant enough in many aspects of life. Their food came, but she didn't speak again, and neither did she, leading her to believe that either the phone call or she had put him in a bad mood. It didn't matter to her which one actually had. She spent the meal picking at her food, having spoken the truth about not being hungry.

The chauffer dropped her off at the house, and Alek didn't follow. She didn't ask why—apparently, as of now, they weren't on speaking terms. She guessed it had something to do with the company. After watching the car begin to drive away, she rolled her eyes disrespectfully at its back window and went inside.

* * *

The next evening, she was obliged to attend the twentieth anniversary of a five-star hotel, which was owned by a partner of her father's. It was near the center of town, so it was rather far from their outskirt-set home, which lay on the opposite side of town than Bruce's manor did. The limousine was required, as it would have been even if it were only a few blocks away. Jenn had learned her lesson about walking in Gotham City.

Alek had informed her that she couldn't wear black all the time. She didn't have a Gothic complex or anything, but she found that wearing black, as opposed to yellow or pink, tended to make her blend. Not that she would wear a formal gown in either of those colors—for casual tops, they were fine, but she shuddered to think of herself in, say, a lemon yellow sheath dress.

He'd taken her to shop for a new one after he'd returned the previous day and she'd picked the next-best thing—dark blue. To go shopping with her dad was weird, but she knew he'd get in a temper if she refused, so she just shut up and did what he wanted. The silk, spaghetti-strapped gown accentuated what curves she had with a quiet grace that she'd never experienced before, dropping to her knees and showing off her lightly tanned, shapely calves. For a formal dress, she actually liked it really well—it was rather low-necked and had intricate designs embroidered in black silk thread on the bodice which she could have done without—she really wasn't trying to attract attention—but it looked good.

Of course, when she'd seen the price she'd almost passed out, but Alek had ignored her protestations that it was insane to spend that much on a _dress_ and bought it anyway. Slightly surprised at the show of generosity, she'd thanked him, and things had gone rather smoothly from then on. She wasn't about to upset that soon.

Now, though, she was figuring that she'd almost paid for the dress with all the people he'd made her meet—the same kind of people as there were at Bruce Wayne's almost two months earlier—in other words, not people that Jenn would like to do any matter of business with, let alone befriend. Still, for politeness' sake, she put up a sociable façade—there were so many people faking interest in the room that she blended right in. She simply kept twisting her simple silver stud earrings and feigning politeness, internally assuring herself that this night would be over soon.

Around nine o'clock, though, about two hours into the gala, Jenn got sick of it. The only amusement the evening had thus afforded her was in seeing Bruce Wayne often—dateless, for once—and seeing how different he was among these people—she didn't think they could tell, or if they did, they kept quiet, but his face tended to slip into a subtly mocking expression, his smiles were contemptuous, and his comments, though quite appropriate on the surface, held an internal scorn that she'd never seen or heard when he spoke to her. She didn't know if she should feel flattered or suspicious. They'd locked eyes three times—not that she was counting—and each time she could tell that he was extremely bored with the events and conversations, but eventually they moved to opposite sides of the room.

Now, after escaping the clutches of a greedy-looking pair made up of a man beyond sixty and a curvaceous woman who was probably middle-aged but was trying desperately to hide it, she managed to duck into a dark room that was unlocked, sighing with relief. Stretching out a hand in front of her to feel if something were to the fore that might trip her, she proceeded towards the back of the room. Every so often, her hand would brush against heavy wood, and she'd feel her way along the edge, wondering what kind of room she was in.

Eventually, she stopped, leaning back against one of the wood surfaces, which was taller than she was—and as her elegant heels gave her an additional two inches (she'd flat-out refused to negotiate with the six-inch stilettos her father tried to get her to wear), she found herself thinking it must be some sort of wardrobe or shelf.

Before she could collect herself, though, the door opened, letting a ray of light and a tall, broad silhouette into the room before casting the area into darkness again. Jenn immediately quieted her breathing so that whoever it was (and she had a good suspicion of who that might be) wouldn't know that she was there, but that was before he spoke.

"Either this is déjà vu or we've been in this situation before."

"Bruce?" She straightened from her leaning pose, turning towards the door even though she knew that he couldn't see her.

"Who else would follow you into a dark room?"

She was suddenly glad for the darkness they were cast in, because she could feel the blush spreading over her face with almost alarming alacrity. He probably hadn't meant the innuendo—she just had a mind that tended to jump to the gutter, for which she blamed Lauren. "Good point," she said, congratulating herself on her steady voice as the blush lingered and then began to fade. "What sort of room is this?" she inquired, to distract herself.

There was a second's silence in which she heard him moving, and then the lights flicked on and her eyes immediately went into squint mode. "Augh," she said, protesting the sudden flow of illumination into her pupils. Her mind jumped to the times when she and Lauren would stand in the dark bathroom in front of the mirror and then suddenly shine flashlights into each other's eyes to see the pupils go from dilated to slit. That had been pretty cool.

"The library kind," he answered, after letting his eyes adjust and he'd had a look around. She followed his example, the glow not hurting her eyes as much, and found that he was right.

"Wow, how spiffy," she said, a note of sarcasm in her voice, but still in slight awe over the selection of books. Bruce lifted an eyebrow in her choice of words but walked over to her now that there was no danger of falling over something. She'd turned her attention to the shelves in an attempt to ignore the man so close to her, for each time she saw him, she was stricken with how attractive he was—and he only seemed to grow more so over the time that passed between their meetings. She was only human—despite her defiance towards her father's manipulations, she couldn't help but notice these things.

She herself raised an eyebrow as her attention was captured—well, as well as it could be with Bruce Wayne standing so close that she could smell him (and he smelled amazing, like mint and linen and a maddening hint of musk)—by a book, which she pulled off the shelf. He leaned towards her, slightly interested, and she turned the cover his way.

" _Big Fish_ ," he read with a chuckle. "I've heard it's a strange one."

"It is," she responded. "I read it a while ago in England. Good, though. Funny—and that means both amusing _and_ strange." She glanced his way. "Bit of an odd thing for a billionaire to hear about, though, isn't it?"

"And a billionaire's daughter is different?" he countered. She nodded her head in the affirmative.

"Yeah, it is. For one thing, I never had outstanding amounts of money to spend at will—I was an ordinary kid in Kentucky, and basically your average high-schooler in England—when I was _there,_ Dad paid for my support but nothing else."

"Explains the lack of spoiled attitude." She glanced at him, unsure of the backhanded compliment (or subtle insult) she'd just been given, but he was scanning the shelves.

"You never answered my question."

"An acquaintance of mine was bored enough to actually pick up a few books over the summer. He told me about it."

"Sounds like a reluctant high-schooler." Bruce laughed.

"Not too far from the truth, I'm telling you," he said. After this statement, he turned to her, and she copied his movement, glancing up at him. "Are you bored?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I mean—" she said quickly, once a half-smile flickered onto his face, "—not with you! But the hotel and the people here—"

"I know what you meant," he said, the smile turning full-blown. "You want to get out of here?"

She glanced around briefly, as if to either check if anyone else was there or to assure herself that he wasn't joking. "Yeah," she finally answered truthfully. He flashed her another smile that she couldn't help but return and turned away, flicking his hand in an unspoken order to follow him. She shrugged and obeyed.

She couldn't help but wonder how he knew his way around the hotel—he _seemed_ quite the expert, leading her through an itinerary of doorways after checking to make sure no one lay behind each one. In no time, it seemed that they were out in the fresh air, away from the stifling perfumes and colognes of the nobles of Gotham's society.

Jenn took a moment to clear her mind of the indoors-induced haze, twirling around several times in the freedom that the night sky allowed her (and amazed that she didn't trip over her heels in the process), before turning back to Bruce, who was grinning at her reaction, hands in his pockets casually. "Now how, exactly, did you know precisely how to get out of there?"

He shrugged. "Years of practice," he said, a smile still on his face. She grinned in return. Somehow, the thought of a teenage Bruce Wayne attempting to escape a boring party struck her as extremely amusing. "You're laughing," he stated.

"Yeah," she replied, seeing no point in lying. "It was just a funny image, that's all."

"So where were you planning on going?" he inquired, changing the subject. She lifted one eyebrow briefly.

"Didn't have plans, really," she confessed, looking around. "I was kind of occupied with the idea of escaping." A slightly mischievous grin slipped over her face as she glanced up at him. "You wouldn't happen to have any mace, would you? That way, the two of us could patrol the streets, stopping crime in its tracks with an aerosol can." His mouth twitched.

"Actually, I think I left mine at home in my purse."

That statement, said straight-faced and in an even tone, made her laugh out loud. The self-deprecation in his tone was a pleasant surprise—she didn't know too many men who were relaxed enough in their egos to say something like that.

"Thanks for totally wrecking the image I've had of you since I first met you," she said between giggles. Bruce just grinned at her, and she decided not to push the lighthearted mood by asking what kind of purse it was, though she desperately wanted to.

"What about the park?"

"Huh?" The change of subject threw her for a second, and she glanced at him before realizing what he was saying. "Oh! Right… that sounds really good, actually. How far is it, two blocks?"

"Yeah," he replied, starting to walk. "Feel like taking the risk?"

"I think I'll be fairly safe," she said with a smile, falling into step beside him. They moved along in silence for a while, before simultaneously looking each other, and she let her amusement shine through as she asked, "So what could possibly bore a younger you to the point that you'd rather brave that labyrinth than stick around?"

"The same things that bore me into braving it now," he replied after a moment, his smile almost to the point of a smirk but not quite there.

"I think I know what you mean," she said with a nod.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, each keeping a separate lookout for potential muggers, but fortunately, those who usually held reign on that part of town were apparently having an off-night. Other than a few interested looks, they received no extra attention.

"How long have you been riding?" Bruce's voice, breaking the silence, startled her, and she turned her head from where she had been scanning the alleys they were passing to look up at him momentarily. As her mind had wandered, it took her a second to realize what he was asking.

"Oh, um…" She paused as she tried to think of how much time had passed since her first ride. "I think… six years? Or a little longer. The family I stayed with in England owned horses, and my friend taught me."

"What, you weren't taught professionally?"

"Oh, no. No, no," she laughed. "I think I might have actually had a harder time with Lauren than I would have with a qualified teacher. For one thing, she insisted on all the basics being rock-hard and drilled into my mind before letting me move on to faster than a trot. It took three months of riding every day before she was satisfied."

"She sounds uncompromising."

"She was," said Jenn, a note of a wistful quality in her tone. "There was no way you could argue with her. No way you could _win_. She's one of the most stubborn people I know, and that's coming from _me_ …"

"Found anyone here that could compare?" Jenn paused, and then shook her head.

"No one that could be as good of a friend as she was. There is a guy down at the stables, though—he seems decent. One of the few." She laughed softly, just a hint of bitterness in the sound. Bruce looked her over.

"What about me?" She glanced at him. "Am I one of that few?"

She laughed quietly, looking over him in her turn, as they took a left and entered the park. "I think so. At least, you seem to be—from what I've seen. And I trust you enough to go walking around Gotham City with you, what does that say?" He gave a brief chuckle and fell silent. She grinned and turned her gaze away, directing it towards their surroundings.

Gotham City Park was one of the few semi-clean establishments in the entire city. Compared to other parks in other places, it would be considered rather shabby, but the grass was growing, and there was only a minimal amount of graffiti on the fountains and modern, artsy statues dotting the grounds. The Mayor appeared to invest as much as he could in keeping this park, at least, clean and as safe as possible—there were other 'parks', of course, but those had mostly descended into the state of slums.

A few other people were out, as well, not the homeless or junkie kind, but the middle-class type—at least, that was what it looked like, and there were a number of cops as well—the only way the mayor was able to keep the park as semi-nice as it was. Jenn smiled at each as they passed them, and Bruce settled for a brief nod. She noticed that the people who passed often sent not-so-covert double-takes back towards Bruce—probably recognizing him, or thinking they did and then deciding that they must be mistaken.

"I saw you talking to Mr. and Mrs. Landlass in there," she said after a few minutes, breaking the silence. "Nice people, aren't they?"

He laughed again. Both knew that the couple that she was referring to was among the worst of the gold-diggers in their circle—talking to them for five minutes was sheer torture. "Uh," he said, considering for a minute, "I don't think that's _quite_ the word I'd use to describe them…"

For a long time, they talked. Other than a few discussions of who was worse out of the social circle they moved in, the talk was mostly about their lives—or more accurately, about _her_ life. Feeling a bit self-conscious, she'd attempted to find out some more about him, but other than a few minutes spent talking about Alfred, he seemed oddly reluctant to share much with her. She didn't take it personally and had resignedly accepted the frequent changes of subject when she got too close.

"…you have _no_ idea how scary it was," she was saying later, a smile on her face. "I mean, this dog was big anyway, for a golden retriever, and I bet she could do fifty miles an hour. Just seeing her hurtling towards you, just one huge, compact yellow blur with her tongue hanging, like, six inches out of her mouth…" She shook her head as Bruce chuckled softly. "You learn the meaning of fear. We used to call her 'Cannonball' because she didn't think _anything_ of clipping your knee with her shoulder as she barreled past and more often than not, it would knock you down. If it didn't, it would almost dislocate your knee. I'm not sure which was worse." She paused, glancing at him. "What about you? You have any pets?"

"Not at the moment, no, not exactly. Probably not in the near future, either, if ever."

"Why? You not an animal person?" He gave a slow shrug.

"I can live without them, let's put it that way." She acquiesced with a nod, but still couldn't help studying him.

After a second, she said, "I bet you're a cat person." Smiling slightly, he looked at her.

"Why would you say that?" She shrugged.

"It's kind of the vibe I get when I'm around you. You take care of yourself; you don't need the society of other people to survive. Cats are like that—they could care less whether you live or die. Well, most of them anyway. Some are like dogs."

"What about you?" he inquired, lifting an eyebrow in her direction. "What kind of animal do you do best with?"

"Depends on the animal," she replied carefully, fairly certain that they weren't talking about pets anymore. "If they're the friendly kind, I'm very much a dog person—open and affectionate, giving and taking in equal measures. If they're snappish, though, then it would be the other way around—cats would do. I get very… hissy, I guess, and self-sufficient." She glanced over at him to see a rather big smile on his face. "You're laughing at me!" she accused, though her own smile rather ruined the effect.

"How can I not? 'Hissy'?" he asked, and she burst out laughing—not so much at herself as at the look on his face, and he smirked as well.

"It's a word," she defended herself, when finally able to talk.

"I have no doubt," he replied, but his smile didn't help her to believe him.

Once more, they walked in relaxed silence. Suddenly, she remembered something and turned to him. "Do you have a watch?" He lifted an eyebrow.

"You don't?" She shook her head.

"I don't like them on me. Never have, for some reason." He offered his arm, and she pushed back the sleeve, and laughed briefly when she noticed what kind it was. "Oh, very posh," she teased. "Wearing a watch that could feed an entire third-world country if sold." The words were said in a joking manner, and taken as they were meant to be, as she checked the time and sighed with regret. "It's late."

He checked the time himself and was surprised to note that two hours had flown by. He glanced up at her. "We'd better get back."

"Yeah," she agreed, still sounding regretful. "My father's going to go insane if he finds out where I've been. Can we get back in as quietly as we left?" He nodded. "Then let's go."

They left the park, as uneventfully as they had come.

**Chapter Nine**

Darkness wrapped silkily around Gotham City with the following evening, creating cover as it did every night for all sorts of crimes… and for some, it provided a method with which to fight said crimes.

For one of these select few, the night had just begun. It was one of those rare nights when he wasn't working on one select big bad or the other—he was free to browse the city and bring desecration on those unlucky random crimedoers.

He moved along the roofs with the coiled stealth that he normally did, using various modes of transport to get from one to the other. His first target was a small group of would-be rapists who had cornered a destitute-looking girl that couldn't have been more than fifteen, and was obviously high on something, judging by the dilation of her pupils and jerky movements as she tried to fight back, but to no avail. He dropped down on them from the roof, and one managed to scream, " _The Batman!"_ before the attack was in full swing.

They didn't even put up a good fight. It was actually pathetic, really—these large, tough-looking men were so fierce and intimidating when up against those smaller and weaker than them, but once facing up against someone who could match and outstrip them in a fight, they turned into sniffling weaklings. Their lack of coordination was a factor, too—either the group had just congregated that evening or hadn't been together long, because instead of working together, they each tried to fight individually—one of the reasons he'd dropped on them like he had. He'd been able to tell that they were new to this. He could smell their fear. The more experienced gangs required picking off, one by one, or they'd work in sync to try to bring him down—it didn't faze him, but was certainly more difficult.

And within two minutes, the fight—if it could even be called that—was over, witnessed only by the girl and a homeless man huddled a ways down against the wall, oblivious to all but his cheap whiskey. The thugs were unconscious all over the alley, many bleeding heavily from various spots. None of their wounds were fatal. He glanced over to the side to see the girl—she had crumpled into a heap against the wall, shaking with huge, gasping sobs of terror—probably as much of him as of the thugs, however much it pained him to think so. A giant black creature leaping from nowhere tended to frighten people.

He referred her to a place he knew, giving the address in his usual growling voice—ordering, not suggesting. She would have better care there than here, at least. Then, he was gone again.

Once safely on the rooftop, he resolved to go visit Gordon. He should still be up—he was working late tonight. They hadn't spoken in a while. No doubt, each would benefit once more from the other's perspective.

* * *

Jenn awoke the next morning feeling slightly nauseous, as if something wasn't quite right. In view of this, she decided to skip breakfast. Choosing to dress, as her father put it, 'commonly', she drew on a pair of low-rise black flares and a slightly clingy, square-necked, long-sleeved blue shirt—the days were growing quickly frigid as October passed.

She wasn't quite sure what the day had in store for her—some were spent simply being lazy, reading or watching the news—Gotham's activities were atrocious but gripping in the way of many horror stories, and Jenn liked to keep in touch with the newest heinous act discovered on the streets of Gotham. Some of her days were active ones, in which she pounded the life from her punching bag and intensely worked out (her knuckles had long since healed), trained with the weights she owned, or rode—sometimes, of course, she was delayed two extra hours at the stable if she caught Ryan on a day off (he still came out to tend to his own horse, a saucy mare named Desecration, or Dess), riding and talking with him. And some days, of course, she was obliged to attend social functions with her father or in his place. She couldn't decide which of the two was worse.

As she headed past the kitchen, Lydia came out, grasping something in her hand. "Miss Jenn. You might want to have a look at this." Jenn lifted an eyebrow—Lydia looked rather upset, and it took a lot to faze the woman.

"What is it?" she asked, taking it—it was your routine tabloid. Lydia didn't answer, didn't need to, for at that moment, Jenn's eyes fell on the picture on the front. It was blurry, dark, and hastily taken at best, but the figures in it were clear enough—it was her and Bruce Wayne, obviously taken during their walk two nights before. Her eyes sought the headline and she grimaced—BRUCE WAYNE'S NEW MYSTERY GIRL: NOT SO MYSTERIOUS! DETAILS INSIDE. Couldn't they come up with something more creative? She quickly flipped to the page indicated, hardly daring to hope that they might be mistaken, and that hope plummeted immediately when she saw her name inside, along with a small biography. Yes, those tabloid reporters were well informed.

She resisted the urge to cuss a streak that would make a sailor blush, instead looking up to meet Lydia's steady black eyes. "How long?"

"I just got it this morning," said Lydia. "I'm not sure how long it's been out." Jenn gave her back the paper, running frustrated hands through her just-brushed hair and sufficiently rumpling it. But really, what had she expected?

"You know," she said finally, "it wouldn't be _nearly_ as bad if it wasn't dragging Bruce down with me. If they caught me, like, flipping off a six-year-old—not that I would," she added hastily, at Lydia's look, "I wouldn't mind _half_ as much. But no—they have to catch two friends doing a perfectly friendly thing and turn it into a stupid _scandal._ " She sighed, shaking her head. "This isn't going to be good."

"Jenn!" The voice from behind made her cringe and she turned to see her father coming towards her, looking jubilant as he bore a copy of the same tabloid she'd been looking at. She could hear Lydia retreat, letting father and daughter work it out, and Jenn felt a grim expression settle over her face.

"Not good, indeed," she muttered to herself, crossing her arms as her father came to stop in front of her, thrusting the picture in her face. This was one fight that wasn't going to be forgotten soon.

* * *

Bruce Wayne slowed the 360 Spider Ferrari into a tame 40 MPH as he came off the freeway, headed for the Redgrove house, a slight frown creasing his forehead as he concentrated on weaving in and out of the slower-moving cars. He wasn't sure, but some allusions had been made to this new 'project' of Alek Redgrove's that he had decided to investigate as Bruce Wayne first, his main reason for trekking all the way across the expansive city.

The secondary and definitely more pleasant reason was standing outside of the gates when he arrived, hands gripping the side of a truck bed as she leaned over it, black leather jacket worn over her blue shirt and black jeans. The truck she stood next to looked slightly beaten up, gunmetal gray in color, and he found it amusingly refreshing to find someone who certainly didn't _need_ to drive a car that looked like that doing so anyway.

He pulled his car over a few feet in front of the truck and got out, hands in the pockets of his long coat as he strode over to her. She looked up as he drew near, turning away from the truck to face him, crossing her arms beneath her chest. He quickly observed that both her eyes and nose were reddened.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately. She sniffed slightly, avoiding his gaze as a hand came up to brush a few stray strands of golden brown back from her face.

"Bruce. What are you doing here?"

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked, observing the two duffel bags in the truck.

"You're avoiding my question," she said with a humorless smile. He looked at her, challenging her to meet his gaze, and she finally did, looking slightly guilty.

"Seems to be contagious, doesn't it?" he asked after a moment. She sighed, tightening her jacket around her as if she were cold—and indeed, the overcast sky didn't allow much sunlight through to provide warmth, making the days feel chillier than they should.

"Yes, I'm going somewhere."

"Where?" he inquired after a moment. She shook her head, another mirthless smile coming over her face as she looked away from him, but he recognized it for what it was—an attempt to keep up the walls that were currently keeping back tears.

"Anywhere." She waved a hand vaguely. "At the risk of sounding overly melodramatic, anywhere that's not here."

"Jenn," he said, catching her attention again, and she looked straight at him. "What happened here?" She bit her bottom lip, studying him as if unsure if she could trust him or not, and suddenly gave a bitter laugh.

"My father and I had another fight." He lifted an eyebrow.

"That's all?"

"No." She didn't sound at all angry that he'd made it sound like a juvenile quarrel, turning away from him to rest her gaze on her father's house. "I found something out."

He suppressed a sigh. She wasn't giving him enough to work with—it was like pulling teeth to get an informative answer out of her right now. Still, curiosity prodded, and he asked, "What did you find out?"

"You remember the other night in the park, how I told you about my mother? How she was murdered?" She sounded quite calm speaking about it.

"Yes." He could guess what was coming next, but decided not to, waiting for her to tell him.

"It was him." There was no shock—he'd expected something of the type ever since she'd told him. He'd known she'd find out who'd done it some day—she was too smart and too inquisitive to just let that lie forever. He waited, and she shook her head slightly. "Well," she amended, "not him _personally_ , but he had her killed." She paused, and the humorless smile was back. "All over a stupid quarrel they had over me."

As well as her nonchalant attitude was keeping up, Bruce was certain that he spotted extra liquid gathered in her brown eyes, and as a spare drop spilled over, trekking quickly down her paler-than-usual face, the theory was definite.

"It's not like I didn't _know_ , because somewhere in me… I always did, you know? It's just… when you know something like this for _sure_ , it's… just…" She trailed off. Words clearly couldn't express how she felt at the moment.

"What are you going to do?" he asked quietly, not moving. She didn't make a motion either, holding perfectly still.

"I… I'm not sure. Probably get a place in Gotham for a night and fly out to England as soon as possible. I know that the Maltons would be happy to have me back." Despite the certainty of her words, there was doubt in her tone, doubt that had to have been instilled by living in Gotham for the months she had. One eventually learned that even the most definite things were never certain.

"You don't sound too sure." Better to address her fears now, before they were fulfilled. She would be grateful before this was over. She turned towards him, wiping at her now-damp face.

"Of course I'm not too sure," she said cynically. "I don't think I'm sure of anything right now."

With that, Bruce made a decision that had been brewing in his mind ever since she'd told him what had happened. " _I'm_ sure of one thing," he said certainly. Jenn looked up at him, blinking in bewilderment, and he allowed a half-smile, a reassuring one, to cross his face. "I'm not letting you on the road in this state."

"Bruce—what—" She watched him, confused, as he reached over into the truck bed, picking up her bags.

"Come on," he said, gesturing at his car. "I'll take you."

She was clearly thrown, but obviously wasn't in the mood to argue with, or even question his intention. Shifting the straps to her bags to one hand, he opened the door for her with the other, then circled around and settled everything else before sliding in beside her and starting the engine.

* * *

As they drove through Gotham, Jenn became vaguely aware that the way Bruce was driving was probably illegal in all the states and most countries. It wasn't _extremely_ dangerous, but she was pretty sure that he was going at least twenty miles an hour above the speed limit, weaving neatly through the other cars. She guessed it came with the car he was driving. Ferraris didn't seem made to drive the appointed speed. If Lauren had gotten her hands on the car… well, to put it in one way, Lauren drove above the speed limit with _normal_ cars. She'd have a Ferrari up to 110 in a manner of seconds, and would inch further till she reached the maximum as the minutes flew by.

She really wasn't all that worried. In fact, she wasn't sure she was feeling anything right now. Since Alek had dropped the bomb on her… well, since a few minutes afterward, she had been immune to all thought and feeling except that she had to get out. Had to leave.

" _Useless, just like your mother…_ "

She turned quickly away from the window and noticed Bruce shooting a rapid glance her way, the barest hint of concern showing in the brown-green eyes that rested on her for half a second before returning to the road. She focused her gaze on the windshield and what lay behind it as well.

"… _if you're not careful, one day, you might have an unfortunate accident… odd how history repeats itself…"_

Jenn bit her lip, hard, causing a sudden pain, but it didn't bleed. She didn't think that Alek had meant for that to slip. He wasn't always the most tactful of men—he'd earned his fortune by being aggressive and blunt. After his say had been completed, they'd stared at each other for a good minute, and she felt a powerful hatred begin to swell as she gazed expressionlessly at her sire. She remembered taking a step towards him, intending to literally beat him senseless—and she _knew_ she would be able to, knew that such a thing was well within the limits of her strength, especially fueled by her wrath—but they'd been interrupted by one of his lackeys, informing him that he had an urgent phone call that couldn't wait.

Shooting her a glance that clearly told her that they'd finished the discussion later, he'd left the room. Apparently, he'd underestimated her, for that was when the strong urge to get away from him had set in. As quickly as possible, she'd thrown most of her clothes into the first duffel bag and everything she wanted to keep that would fit in the second, and had gotten out of there. Once outside the gate, she'd paused to make sure the bags would remain secure in the back of the truck for the trip—not that she figured they'd fly out—and that was when Bruce had arrived, much to her undisclosed relief. She needed someone to spill to, and Lydia, Ryan, and Bruce were the only ones that she trusted in this entire town.

As Lydia was in her father's house, she was out of the question. She had originally planned on possibly seeking out Ryan, calling him or something, but Bruce had gotten there before she could take action. Speaking of Bruce, he never had said why he was there. She glanced at him questioningly, but now his gaze was firmly fixed on the blacktop as he continued to weave—they were drawing towards the other edge of the city now, towards his home.

"Bruce?" she asked after a minute, the bombshell her father had delivered hovering on the edges of her mind, as shocking news always did, but she was trying so hard not to think about it… she dreaded trying to go to sleep that night. Usually when she was disturbed, she tried to keep as busy as possible, so when that thing lingering in her mind made a threat to come to the forefront, she could just concentrate extra-hard on the task at hand. Attempting to sleep was usually out of the question—there was usually at least ten minutes between lying down and actually sleeping that allowed her mind to wander where it willed, and it usually decided to seek out the most disturbing thought it could find. After she'd learned this by experience, she usually didn't sleep on those nights, working straight through them till she was just so tired that she'd literally fall asleep as her head hit the pillow.

"Hmm?" He glanced at her for a half-second again.

"Where are we going?" she wanted to know, wrapping her leather-clad arms around herself and burrowing back into the seat a little ways. Bruce glanced at her again, dropping his speed somewhat so that he didn't have to pay utmost attention to the driving.

"Did you have any idea of where you were going to go?" he asked. She sighed.

"Nothing specific—I already told you what plans I had."

"You could stay at the Manor." She double-took to make sure she had heard correctly, but his eyes were on the road again.

"Bruce…"

"Not for long. Just till you get your feet, decide what to do," he said, not even a twinge of uncertainty in his self-assured tone. "I mean, right now you're a little shaky—and we definitely have room." He heard her give a small snort at that and allowed a half-smile to come over his own face.

"That you do," she murmured, watching him carefully. She paused momentarily—she knew that she should turn him down, assure him that she'd be fine on her own, shaky or not. Not too many establishments were safe in Gotham City, but there was sure to be a decent hotel around if she looked. This didn't change the fact that she really, _really_ wanted to accept the offer. Tossing caution to the wind, she said, "Thank you, Bruce. It would really be a relief not to worry about that."

He gave a brief nod which indicated that the conversation was over, and they continued to drive, both feeling oddly eased.

**Chapter Ten**

"Alfred!" Bruce entered the manor, carrying both of Jenn's heavy bags effortlessly over his shoulder.

"Master Bruce?" The regal butler appeared from nowhere within seconds. Jenn shifted, slightly uncomfortable at this intrusion that would no doubt fall on Alfred the hardest—she wished Bruce had let her carry her bags, so that she could at least have something to occupy her hands. She flushed slightly and tried not to stare at the floor.

"This is Jenn," said Bruce, waving with a free hand towards the brunette. Alfred's gaze fell on her, and she offered a half-smile.

"The same Miss Redgrove, I assume?" Jenn nodded and Bruce confirmed it vocally.

"She's going to be staying with us for a day or two," Bruce told Alfred. "Till she gets back on her feet." If the butler was at all perplexed by this unusual turn of events, he didn't show it at all, simply nodding once.

"Very good, sir. I'll prepare one of the guest bedrooms, then?"

"Yeah—thanks, Alfred." Alfred gave another brief nod and reached for the bags, which Bruce gave up without a fight.

"Thank you, Alfred," Jenn said as well, and he offered her a small smile before turning and heading up the stairs. Jenn watched him for a second, and then turned to Bruce, forehead creased. "Those bags are really heavy, Bruce."

"Alfred's tougher than he seems," said Bruce with a smile. "He could manage two more of the same with relative ease."

"Are you sure I shouldn't-?"

"I'm sure," he replied, touching her arm lightly. "Come on. I'll need to show you around so you don't get lost in here."

"Bruce… it'll only be a day, two at the most." He simply smirked slightly at her and turned, gesturing for her to follow him. Lifting an eyebrow, she did.

A few minutes and about twelve rooms later, she was beginning to realize how big Wayne Manor really was. Her glance diverted to Bruce, who looked as though he was trying not to laugh, and her eyes narrowed slightly, though not in a hostile manner. "I really think you're enjoying this."

"What?" He looked all too innocent to her.

"Knowing that it's a given I'm going to get lost in this house."

"It can't be that different from yours."

"My father's house _is_ different. I lived there and had time to adjust. I think I'll just stay in my room the entire time for fear of never finding my way out of this labyrinth."

"We can't have that. I guess I'll have to take you everywhere." She lifted an eyebrow and went along with it, pretty sure that he was teasing.

"Can't have that, either. There's no way I'm going to be a dead weight on one of the most important men in Gotham City."

"That's true," he said, a feigned crease to his brow. "Then I'll just leave you in the middle of the house where you can't cause trouble while I'm busy and come and get you at the end of the day." She laughed, and some deep part of her felt guilty for expressing amusement so soon after discovering the truth about her mother.

"I could think of a good deal of trouble I could cause," she said, pushing the guilt away. He lifted an eyebrow, but they were interrupted by Alfred, who offered to show Jenn to her room. Bruce nodded at her, and speaking her thanks once more, she followed the butler from the room.

* * *

"Yeah? Who is this?" The yelled-out words said with the distinctive English accent made Jenn wince, and she pulled the phone away from her ear.

"Lauren! It's Jenn."

"Jenn!"

"Quit shouting!" said Jenn, wincing slightly at the yell.

"What?!"

"Stop shouting," Jenn said, a little louder.

" _What?!_ "

"STOP SHOUTING!" bellowed Jenn as loudly as possible, and then she flushed as she realized that she was still in the manor, sitting barefooted and cross-legged on the richly carpeted floor, having shucked her leather jacket to the blue, close-fitting long-sleeved top beneath—there was a phone in her room, which was rather nice.

"Ohh! I thought you said hop-outing."

"What? Why would I say 'hop-outing'?" Jenn asked bewilderedly.

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Why were you yelling anyway?"

"I was driving with the window down."

"Lauren…"

"What is it now?"

"Are you _eating_ in my ear?"

"No. I'm eating in the phone." Jenn made a slight face, but still couldn't repress a small grin at Lauren's insanity. She'd missed it—there was no one who acted that way in Gotham. They were all too scared of being put away, but Lauren was one of a kind.

"Right. How's everyone?"

"Missing you," said Lauren, and Jenn swore she could hear the other woman shrug. "I am too, by the way. When are you going to make the Dick-tator let you visit?" Dick-tator was Lauren's name for Alek, and Jenn's gaze darkened slightly at the mention. "You could put me on the phone with him and let me convince him," suggested Lauren, oblivious.

"I doubt that's going to happen soon."

"Explain yourself or I'll cut you apart with a cheese grater."

"Do you have one on hand?" asked Jenn, momentarily forgetting her depressing train of thought. Lauren tended to have that effect on people.

"No, but I have a lighter and I'll set you on fire."

"Why do you have a lighter? You haven't started smoking, have you?"

"No, but Josh left it in the car yesterday."

"Josh?" Jenn's tone turned suspicious. "Lauren…"

"Yeah, we're dating now."

"But he doesn't smoke either!" Jenn wasn't really surprised that Lauren was dating Josh again—they had had an on and off love/hate relationship for years.

"I know. He just likes lighters. The guy's a natural pyro." Jenn shook her head, trying not to be amazed. "You still haven't told me what you mean, and that lighter's looking really tempting."

"You'll never guess where I am," Jenn said, deciding not to point out that Lauren couldn't set her on fire if she _wanted_ to, because they were currently an ocean apart.

"Morocco," said Lauren immediately.

"No."

"Venice."

"No."

"In the future."

"What?!"

"You asked me to guess!"

"Lauren—no! I'm inside of Wayne Manor." There was silence. "You know, where Bruce Wayne lives?"

"That sexy guy in the news clippings you've sent me?"

"Lauren, you weren't supposed to be paying attention to that article," said an exasperated Jenn. "You were supposed to be reading about the crime rise."

"He was spicy!" Lauren defended herself. "Is he as short as he looks, though?"

" _No_ , capital 'N'. He's about six foot two, maybe taller."

"Wow." Lauren sounded impressed. "What are you doing at his house?" She gasped. "You're not being _naughty_ , are you?"

"Lauren!" Jenn instinctively checked over her shoulder to make sure no one had come in behind her, cheeks flaming.

"Oh, you're too reticent, hun," said Lauren, a grin audible in her voice. "I bet you can't even say 'testicles' out loud." Jenn gaped and pushed her eyes shut.

"Of course I can!" she defended herself.

"Then say it," Lauren said immediately.

"No!"

"Told you! You're such a weenie!"

"No, I just don't want anyone to hear!"

"Weenie."

"Lauren, you don't understand. There's this cool butler, Alfred, and if he heard me saying it…"

"He'd laugh."

"I'm not saying it, Lauren, and we're getting off the subject."

"I'm not going to listen to what you have to say until you say 'testicles'."

"L—" Jenn began, realizing before she started that it was useless.

"Say it!" said Lauren sharply. "Look," she said, "I'll yell it out my window." Jenn took that as a warning and held the phone away from her ear as Lauren bellowed, "TESTICLES!" so loudly that she might as well have been in the room.

"That was _not_ funny, Lauren."

"Say it!"

Cheeks burning, Jenn sent a furtive look around, before whispering, "Testicles," into the phone, continuing to blush furiously. "I can't believe you made me do that!"

"Oh, that doesn't count!" whined Lauren. "You whispered it!"

"You didn't state the rules at the outset, so I win."

"Fine." Lauren decided not to sulk. "What did you want to say?" Jenn's face darkened once more at the reminder.

"My dad dropped a bombshell today." Lauren paused, and then gasped.

"EW! Please, _please_ do not tell me that that meant what my innuendo-crazed mind thought it did!" Jenn grimaced, picking up immediately.

"Lauren, just… gross. Thank you _so_ much for that disgusting image."

"I can't help it if my mind works in different ways!"

"You live in the gutter, and more often than not, you drag me down with you," Jenn said with an eyeroll.

"Hey, 'we are all in the gutter; but some of us are looking at the stars,'" chirped an all-too-cheerful Lauren.

"Who said that?" asked Jenn curiously. "It sounds familiar."

"Oscar Wilde."

"Oh, yeah." Jenn paused. "Back to the bombshell…" she ignored the giggles coming from Lauren at this point, "you know how my dad's a complete jerk, right?"

"Mmm-hmm?"

"He had my Mom killed." There was silence, and then Jenn hastily took the phone from her ear as a stream of cuss-words flowed effusively from it. When it seemed Lauren was finally tapering down after about thirty seconds, each of her curses new and inventive (and some in a different language—it sounded like German, or possibly Russian), Jenn returned the phone to her ear. "Trust me, I feel _exactly_ the same way."

"Let me come down there," Lauren suggested. "I'll kick the—" And Jenn moved the phone away again for another fifteen seconds until her friend was done.

"Lauren, I'm doing fine on my own. You don't want to mess with my dad. He can have you killed, as he's proven so effectively." Lauren was silent for a moment.

"Where does Wayne come in?" she asked finally.

"I met him about a week after I first came here," Jenn said. "He wasn't… wasn't exactly what he's rumored to be. I mean, he is, but he's not."

"Really clear there, Jenn," Lauren told her. Jenn sighed.

"Okay, well… around me, he's not, but other people tend to bring out this kind of mockery in him. But when we're alone—"

"Oo, _alone_ …"

"—he's friendly and very pleasant. Lauren, quit trying to find something that isn't there with every sentence I say. We're friends, I swear."

"He hasn't kissed you yet?" Lauren sounded disappointed. Jenn scowled, not necessarily at the words but at the images they entailed, images that were dangerously attractive.

"Lauren, friends don't kiss."

"I kiss all my friends! It's a friendly platonic friend thing! Not that yours has to be platonic in the _least…_ "

"Lauren…"

"Being quiet. Go ahead."

"Okay, he and I have known each other almost since I got here." She chuckled slightly at the irony. "Dad wanted me to get to know him better, seduce him or something, and I fought with Dad _all the time_ about it and insisted I hated Bruce, and then Bruce becomes one of my only friends—Dad didn't know, of course. It figures. Anyway, he was stopping by Dad's house and saw me outside. After I told him what was happening, he brought me back to his house, which is _huge_ by the way, and I'm staying here for a few days."

"Why not longer?"

"I have to leave Gotham."

"And where exactly were you planning on going?" Lauren's sophisticated voice had sharpened from it's usual comfortable British drawl, sounding very businesslike now.

"Umm…" Jenn suddenly felt a lack of confidence. "England?"

"Nope."

"What?"

"No, girl," said Lauren, a hint of urgency in her tone. "The Dick-tator's going to be looking for you. He just told you a secret that could incriminate him."

"He doesn't care," Jenn said, though there was an uncertain quality in her tone. "He's… rich. He doesn't have to deal with jail."

"So? He doesn't want you blabbing. If his social circle finds out even a _rumor_ that he had his wife killed…"

"His circle's just like him."

"Jenn, I'd believe you, but your voice is shaking." Jenn dropped her gaze to the thick carpet, and heard Lauren sigh. "I'd be scared. Judging by the way he treats you, I'd guess that he wouldn't think twice about having _you_ killed, too. You can't come here."

"But… I feel safest there."

"But you're _not_ ," Lauren said. "This will be the first place he looks. If what you've said is all true, he won't even _think_ of looking at Wayne's place. _Stay there._ When everything's safe, say, in a month or two—"

"A _month or two?!_ Lauren, Bruce said a _day_ or two! I'm not a freeloader—I can't stay here that long!"

"Sure, you can. Charm him, or something. Kiss him. A guy can't refuse a good kiss." Jenn sighed, pressing her fist to her forehead in an attempt to banish the yet again disturbingly pleasurable images evoked by that.

"It's times like this that I wonder why I even talk to you." Lauren laughed, having reverted to her usual lighthearted self.

"Look. You don't have to do that, but just… act helpless."

"I'm not going to be a despie."

"You don't have to! If this man's your friend, he'll help you out. If he's not, you shouldn't be there with him."

"It couldn't hurt to ask…" Jenn said slowly. "I mean, the worst he could say is 'no'."

"No," contradicted Lauren, "the worst he could say is 'You can stay if you reimburse me by sleeping with me every night'. And it'd be worse if you agree, though I can't blame you if he's as sexy or sexier than he is in the tabloids." Jenn made a sound of disgust as her friend dissolved into rollicking laughter.

"Honestly, Lauren, is that all you think about?!"

"No," Lauren said merrily. "That's only half of what I think about. Unfortunately, you called me when I was thinking about it."

"Oh. Great."

"Well, I'm not going to keep you. You have work to get done and I'm pulling into the drive. So, not to be rude, sod off and get to work."

"You know, if I didn't know you as well as I do, I'd take that as an insult."

"You know you love it." Jenn rolled her eyes.

"Tell everyone I said hi, all right?"

"Tell Wayne that if he hurts you, I'm coming to snap off each and every one of his appendages." Jenn winced.

"Okay, not only would you not be able to—you should see the man's biceps—but, ew! Thanks for the images!"

"An unpleasant exchange of images seems to be the thing now, whenever we talk. Or write. Or do anything, really." Jenn paused.

"Lauren, are you chewing gum now?"

"No, I'm cotton candy."

"That was one of the corniest things I've ever heard come out of your mouth," Jenn said blankly, not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the really, really bad joke.

"And here it was meant to be sugary and cottony."

"And there you go again!" groaned Jenn. A pop in her ear signified that, yes, Lauren did have bubble gum in her mouth and was proceeding to blow and pop bubbles in the phone. "Are you getting gum on your cell phone?"

"Probably. I don't care. Get off!"

"Fine! Since you don't want me to talk to you…"

"Sorry about your mum, Jenn, really," Lauren said, suddenly sounding serious. "Next time you see the Dick-tator, poke out his eyes with your middle finger for me, okay?" Jenn rolled her eyes and smirked.

"Thanks, Lauren."

"For what?"

"Making me feel better." Lauren chuckled.

"No problem. I'll tell the kiddies you said hi. Now, bye."

"Bye." She heard the click that signified Lauren hanging up and sighed, reaching forward and up to put the handset on the receiver again. This done, she leaned back on her palms, tipping back her head so that her hair hung down almost to the ground.

Lauren was right—she couldn't go to England and stay with the Maltons—at least not immediately. She had no doubt that Hannah Malton, the matriarch of the large family of which Lauren was the oldest child, would welcome her with slightly plump, open arms—as she always had, and not because she was paid to. Jenn had heard Hannah speaking to her husband, Nick Malton, on numerous occasions, abusing Alek mightily for 'letting that poor, lost child come out here, all alone'.

Yes, she had no doubt that she'd always be welcome at the Malton home. That didn't change the fact that it would be the first place Alek would look, the second being Georgia, with Maggie's family. Lauren had raised a good point—now, she was aware of what she had to do, and grimaced as she got to her bare feet, almost wishing Lauren hadn't pointed these things out.

* * *

"Settled in?" Jenn turned to see Bruce heading her way, and her forehead creased slightly—where had he come from? This house was too big… there were probably secret passages in it.

"Yeah—thanks, Bruce. This really, really means a lot to me." He nodded at her, that familiar half-smile tugging at his mouth, and she hesitated, feeling the blush start up again as, unbidden, some of the things Lauren had said came to her mind. She _really_ wished her friend hadn't seen fit to put those images in her head. "Um, listen," she said, looking up to him as she tried to ignore them and seeing a look that was a bit too amused in his eyes, "I put in a call to my friend Lauren…"

"The weird one?"

"She prefers the term 'unconventional'," said Jenn with a brief smile. "But… she brought up a point, and…" She paused. Crap. Lauren made this sound _way_ too easy… but what was she going to say? 'Since my father's a jerk, I'm going to turn into a freeloader for about a month, is that okay with you?' "About me going to England right away…" she murmured.

 _You could always just kiss him._ Crap. There was that segment of her mind that momentarily took control after she'd talked to Lauren, the crazy, irrational segment. And the image hit her at full force again, so before she said something she regretted—like yelled at herself for being stupid—she bit the inside of her lip.

"Jenn." Bruce decided to take pity on her—she was practically wriggling with discomfort, and as amusing as it was, along with the fact that the blush was actually very cute, he figured that she'd hate him for the rest of her life if he didn't intervene soon. She looked up at him imploringly. "You can stay for however long you need to. You're not inconveniencing anyone."

He just had time to see the relief and resulting joy that lit her brown eyes before she leapt at him, standing on tiptoe in order to get her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. He wrapped one arm loosely around her, letting his hand rest lightly on her back—he should have figured that she was a hugger. She seemed the type. For someone who didn't dispense hugs regularly himself, it wasn't as unpleasant as one might think. In fact, much to the contrary.

"Thank you _so_ much, Bruce," she said quietly in his ear, and held on to him for a few more seconds before stepping back a bit reluctantly, her blush reappearing—not that it had ever fully disappeared.

"I'll expect payback," he replied teasingly. She quickly tamped down the images of Lauren's blatant statement regarding reimbursement earlier, affecting an offended look.

"What, that hug wasn't good enough?"

"Not nearly."

"You're a greedy person, Mr. Rhett." He smirked, clearly catching the _Gone With the Wind_ reference.

"I'm allowed to be." She just rolled her eyes at him. "Look, I have to go for a little while. I should be back before dinner. In the meantime, I suggest you try and memorize the layout of the place so I don't have to come rescue you."

"Ha, that's an amusing thought." He lifted an eyebrow, and she just shrugged at him.

"I'll see you later. Get Alfred to help you with anything you need."

"Thank you, Bruce." He nodded at her and was gone.

**Chapter Eleven**

Alfred was _awesome._

Jenn had reached the conclusion after the man had patiently explained to her _why_ it was necessary for Bruce to have so many _huge_ rooms—of course, it was just the tip of the iceberg. But Alfred was one of those rare people that just had the talent of making you feel like you belonged—if he felt like doing so, of course. She didn't doubt at all that he could be quite frosty if he wanted to.

With her, he put up patiently with her questions and her insistence that he quit calling her 'Miss Redgrove' and start calling her 'Jenn' (he continued to ignore her, of course), which made her think that either the man was a saint to possess such tolerance or he enjoyed having her around. Or he had a very, very good poker face and was secretly concealing a good deal of disgust for her. She didn't want to think of it that way.

Currently, they were in the kitchen. Alfred had excused himself after a time, saying that he needed to prepare dinner, and invited her to stick around in the kitchen if she so desired. Having nothing else to do and not wanting to get lost in the manor, she decided to do so.

"You cook for him as well?" she asked speculatively after prowling around the kitchen as well as she could without getting in Alfred's way. She was now seated on one of the bar stools, leaning forward on her elbows.

"Master Bruce finds that many items on a gourmet chef's menu would be far too rich," he replied calmly. "He prefers simpler meals."

"And my respect for him continues to grow," she said thoughtfully, "as it does for you. Between butler and chef, what else do you do?"

"What needs to be done, Miss Redgrove," he answered with a slightly cryptic smile. "Just what needs to be done."

* * *

A day passed uneventfully. Jenn was extremely relieved to find that Bruce ate in the kitchen normally with Alfred, as some of the dining rooms in the house were extremely intimidating. Rooms that were a hundred feet long tended to be. The evening passed.

When she awoke the next morning, Bruce was still asleep, and she decided to step outside for a few minutes. She gave an appreciative shiver at the sudden sting of early-morning cold, tightening her jacket around herself. Perhaps it wouldn't be so chilly if it weren't so overcast—still, mid October in Gotham City was nothing to joke about. She would bet on it that they'd get their first snowfall just after Halloween.

Slowly, without really thinking about it, she started to walk. She figured that she'd stay warm enough—in moderately dressy black boots, worn because they went well with the jeans she was wearing, the black leather jacket from the day before worn over a purple v-neck top made of some thin but deceptively warm material.

The grounds really were beautiful. She wasn't particularly one to extol the beauties that huge houses often had to offer, but in this case, she'd make an exception. She found herself venturing a lot further than she had originally planned, until she stumbled upon a rather familiar sight—the trail where she'd met up with Bruce that rainy day.

She paused, hands in her back pockets as she looked over the road, before she came aware that Ryan and Dess were coming around the corner.

All three stopped still for a few seconds, until Ryan came out of it and looked closer at her. "Jenn? Holy… is that you?"

"Um… yes," she said, lifting an eyebrow and wondering what, exactly, was causing this reaction—she'd just seen him a few days earlier. He immediately got off of Dess and came straight at her, making her make a small noise of alarm at the sudden charge before he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet. "Ryan," she coughed. "I… ow… have to breathe."

"Jenn," he said, setting her down on her feet again and maintaining a grip on her arms as he looked directly into her eyes, "where have you _been_?"

"What?" She was beginning to develop a vague idea of what he was talking about, although she was begging and praying for it not to be true.

"You've been missing since yesterday morning—your father visited the stables yesterday afternoon in search of you."

"Oh." Jenn's forehead creased at this information. "Already?"

"Jenn…" Ryan surveyed her doubtfully. "What's going on?" She bit her lip.

"Look… Ryan, if I could tell you, I would. Right now, though—things need to be sorted out, and maybe after that I can reveal some stuff. But I'm okay, I swear—despite what you might hear. You believe me?"

He stared at her for a few seconds, and then gave a slow, reluctant nod.

* * *

When Jenn returned to the Manor after a time, she was approached by Alfred and informed that Bruce had been obligated to go into town, but that he'd had her truck brought in yesterday afternoon, and if she wished to do something other than hanging around the manor she certainly might.

She took it as a hint, reclaimed her keys, and left.

She didn't return for a few hours. She found plenty to do in town, what with ducking out of sight every five minutes to avoid faces that were associated with her father as well as refining the half-formed notion that had taken hold of her mind when she first left and accomplishing it.

Her return to the mansion was uneventful. She keyed in the code Bruce had given her the day earlier for the gate, drove up the expansive drive, and parked in the massive garage, rather deep in. Getting out, she grinned at the sight of her beat-up truck amidst the Porsches, Corvettes, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and other expensive sports cars that littered the area. Some envious people—or some that were just plain brash^, like Lauren—would say that Bruce was compensating for something.

Heading indoors, she was met with an empty anteroom, though she doubted that she'd be alone for long. Somehow, she had a feeling that Alfred knew everything that went on in the mansion.

Passing into the first living room, she was met with the sight of Bruce coming in from the opposite door, talking on a cell phone. She paused uncertainly, and he gestured that she could stay, motioning for her to sit down with a slightly odd look on his face. Lifting an eyebrow at his expression, she pulled her shoulder bag off and set it next to the doorway before crossing to a leather armchair and taking a seat, crossing her legs as she watched him.

"No, Lucius, they can't just get away with that," Bruce said, preferring to stand and continuing to watch Jenn with a curious expression, crossing the room to stand in front of the window, one hand in his back pocket, the other holding the cell phone. "I know, but we've got to find a way, or things might get drastic." He paused and then chuckled. "No, not lately. Horseback riding's actually been the thing. Never know when I'll get back to it, though."

At that, both of Jenn's brows raised. _What the…?_ Bruce, almost as if he could read her mind, grinned a bit at her, and then returned his attention to the phone. "Okay. That'll work—call me back when you have news." He then cut off the phone and tossed it carelessly on the ottoman in front of him.

"I'm not going to risk my sanity by asking what that was about," Jenn said.

"Business. You wouldn't be interested." She lifted an eyebrow again, and he gave her that same odd look.

"Okay, you keep looking at me like I'm a freak. What's up?"

"Your hair."

"Yeah, I changed it." She touched the strands framing her face self-consciously, doubting her decision for the first time in a sudden wave of uncertainty. "I figured that regarding the situation, it'd be the best thing."

It wasn't a small change, either, Bruce noted as he looked over her. The blonde highlights had been completely removed, and without their lighter influence, he was noticing for the first time how dark her hair really was. Blonde had been replaced with a darker color than her natural tones, a rich color with hints of red in it—like mahogany. There was also a change in the cut—it wasn't much shorter than its original shoulderblade span, but there were different lengths set in as opposed to the unanimous cut of before.

It definitely was a change. Before, with the all-too-common blonde streaks, she'd been pretty, of course, in the sort of girl-next-door, unaffected means. Now, with the darker and infrequent hue, she was attractive in a different, sexier way. He knew it was ridiculous to imagine that change of appearance reflected change in personality, but formerly she'd seemed almost untouchable in the simplicity she seemed to portray. Now, she seemed more wary, tougher, willing to take what was coming. He wasn't sure if he missed the naïveté or was glad for its banishment.

"Does it look okay?" Her voice, smaller than usual, alerted him to the fact that he'd been staring, and he met her eyes to see that she looked as if she were fearful that he was about to bite her head off. He chuckled slightly, her words having acted as a reassurance that she hadn't changed at all. She was still the same humor-filled, slightly scared, intrepid young woman that she'd been since the day he met her.

"Of course it does. It's just… really different, that's all."

"Yeah. That was kind of the aim," she said, looking cheerful once more. Her gaze redirected itself to the muted widescreen television on the other end of the room, however, and her smile faltered. "And it was a good idea, too."

Bruce turned to see that the thing was, as usual, tuned in to the news, and was now displaying a picture of her. In silence, he picked up the remote and cut up the volume.

"…apparently, the heiress disappeared yesterday morning after an argument with her father, and since then has not shown up. Mr. Redgrove is frantically searching for his only child and is offering a generous reward for any information in regard to her whereabouts. In other news, Lem Adair, a high-ranking judge, was assassinated—the police assume that the murder took place early in the morning—"

Bruce hit the power button and the TV flipped off. There was a moment's silence, and then Jenn spoke up. "Well. Planning on turning me in for that reward money, Mr. Wayne?" Her mouth was turned upwards slightly in a smile, but her eyes looked deadened.

"Jenn…" Bruce said, making a motion towards her but aborting it quickly. She ducked her head, chewing on her lip.

"Bruce…" she said, abandoning pretenses. "I think he wants to kill me." He circled the room again, stopping behind her chair and leaning forwards over the back.

"What makes you think that?" he asked quietly, no skepticism in his tone.

"I know, I'm his daughter, but now that I know about Mom… I'm also a threat. And I'm pretty sure he's in with some illegal stuff, too, and he knows I know _that_ … it'd be easier to kill me off than to brainwash me on his side." Her voice was quiet and accepting, as if what she was stating was absolute.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Bruce said. Jenn exhaled slowly. "Which is why I promise that he isn't going to find you."

"I wish I could believe that."

"You should. My promises aren't made lightly." She lifted her head, looking up at him with the faintest trace of hope in her eyes, but it died almost immediately as she spoke.

"Bruce, right now, I'm a liability to you. If he finds me here it'll be all over the news, tabloids… he might even try to get you on kidnapping charges. The best thing—"

"Would be for you to stay here and stay safe," Bruce interrupted firmly. "Jenn, you're my friend. One of the few in Gotham City, as a matter of fact. I'm not going to stand back and watch him hunt you down. You're staying here."

"Hey," she began, relief on her face but a hint of indignancy in her tone at being told what to do.

"Agreed?" he asked, moving his hand down to her side and poking her. She jerked away immediately.

"Ouch! Don't, I'm ticklish."

 _Note to self,_ Jenn thought as she saw his eyes light up. _Never,_ ever _tell someone evil your weaknesses._ She darted to her feet but had only gotten two steps before he caught her around the ribcage.

"Agreed?" he pressed, one hand holding tightly to her, the fingers of the other moving lightly up and down her left side in a manner that wouldn't have been unpleasant if she wasn't so sensitive in that area, unlike the bruising tickling she'd received from so many other people. She jerked and laughed hysterically, both of them ignoring the ringing of his cell phone until it stopped.

"I… can't… breathe," she gasped between laughs.

"Agreed?"

In response, she managed to gain enough control of herself to turn the situation around, reaching back with her hand to brush her fingers over his cotton-clad ribcage. He didn't move or react, continuing in the relentless torture. "Fine! Agreed! Just… stop!"

He let her go, and she fell sideways onto the couch, clutching her ribs and wheezing for air. Grinning slightly at her, he sat down on the floor, leaning back against the couch carelessly, his head around the level of her stomach.

"How do you do that?" she demanded once her breath was regained.

"What?" he asked, sounding slightly perplexed. "Tickle you?"

"No! Not respond when _I_ tickle _you_!"

"Oh. Long story, one that I don't feel like telling you."

"What?" She propped herself up on her elbow, looking indignantly at him. "Why not?"

"Because if I tell you, you won't be ticklish anymore, and I find that it's good to have weapons against the people you come across in everyday life."

"You're a brute," she muttered, flopping back down.

"No," he countered, "I just won't give in to you."

"That too." The cell phone started ringing again, but he tuned it out.

Learning how not to be ticklish wasn't a hard task, per se. When he had been a child, those few people that would tickle him—his parents and Alfred exempt, of course—were bruising in their enthusiasm, and he hadn't enjoyed it at all. As time passed, he realized that it was because he fought it, and in time learned that total relaxation while being tickled eventually rendered one immune.

He had no intention of telling Jenn that, though. Maybe it was merciless, but seeing her laugh without restraint like that was far too amusing.

"Crime's still growing in the city," she murmured quietly, her mind having strayed from the original topic after the phone quit ringing. He said nothing, just shifted slightly. "Batman's helping… but he can't be everywhere at once."

"But they're starting to get the picture," Bruce said finally. "These thugs are finally getting that some people have the guts to stand up to them."

"And what about you?" inquired Jenn quietly. "Are you making a stand?"

"In my own way," he said after a moment, smiling grimly, though she couldn't see. "Funding the incorrupt cops, lawyers, judges… getting dirt on the dishonest ones and making sure that the right people get them."

"People like Rachel Dawes?" He tensed slightly, and felt her hand rest briefly on his shoulder before moving away again. She had to strongly resist the urge to mess up his hair, partially because she was certain it would make him look cute—and that in itself was a phenomenon, usually he was just sexy—and partially because she wanted to see what it would feel like. Shaking her head slightly, she made herself focus on the conversation. "Sorry… I don't mean to intrude. I just saw some stuff in the tabloids a while ago…"

"You read those?"

"Lydia—my dad's cook—does. Sometimes she'll point things out."

"Me included?" There was a slight hint of mischief in his voice now. She worked hard not to smile.

"Actually, the article was on how kittens influence pollution and global warming—you just happened to be on the opposite page," she teased in return. He gave a snort, and then turned serious.

"Rachel's an extremely intelligent woman," he remarked. "She knows how to get the wheels turning, and this city needs her. She's always been very decisive about right and wrong, and that's part of what makes us such good friends."

 _Friends._ Jenn shook off the absurd feeling of relief that filled her at that word. It wasn't as if she had any claim over him, anyway.

Bruce fell quiet, reflecting on the thoughts and memories that the mention of Rachel brought up. They'd been friends since he turned four. Her mom brought her to his birthday party, and she was the only kid that didn't run around screaming. She was… incorruptible. He sighed, suddenly tired, running a hand over his face. But they couldn't have a relationship. They'd outgrown the parts of their lives in which it could have been possible. Now, though, he wasn't sure if that was a particularly bad thing.

At that second, his cell phone went off again, and they both looked at it as if it were intruding on something.

"You're a popular guy,"^ noted Jenn with rueful amusement.

"Unfortunately, that's the case," he said with just the right amount of lament and arrogance seasoning his tone as he pushed himself up from the floor. Jenn pulled her legs around to sit up. "I've got to get this." ^

"No problem. I'll go bug Alfred."

"I'm sure he'd prefer it if you got lost in the mansion," grinned Bruce as he picked up his phone and pressed the call button. "Bruce Wayne."

She stuck out her tongue at him before climbing to her feet and walking past him towards the door. She picked up her shoulder bag, and made an exit, solidly pretending not to hear him speak with a sudden even, controlled, but obviously deadly anger to whoever was on the other line.

* * *

"Storm hasn't passed." The quiet voice was spoken in the dark office, intoned by the only visible person who was illuminated by the city's lights streaming through the shutters. His looks were mostly consumed by darkness, but he was a blue-eyed older man with graying hair and a thick mustache.

"No." The guttural, harsh voice came suddenly, almost unexpectedly from the shadows of the room, where a huge silhouette, perhaps distorted and made more fearful by shade, stood, motionless. "And it won't. Not for a while. Not until we finally get through to these people."

Jim Gordon pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat, felling the chill in the office that was supposed to be abandoned at this time of night. "You had something you needed."

The dark shape could be observed nodding. The sudden movement would startle any watchers, as a black-clad arm came out, tossing some balled-up newsprint on Gordon's desk

Looking warily, but not mistrustfully, at his visitor, Gordon reached out and took the ball, straightening it out to see several pages, all with bold headlines.

MILLIONAIRE MARCUS BREACH MURDERED

SENATOR HAYES FOUND DEAD—SUSPECTED SUICIDE

BAR-CHAIN OWNER MEGAMAN POISON SCANDAL

JUDGE ADAIR MURDERED IN THE MORNING HOURS

Gordon looked up again, comprehension dawning. "Yeah—I've covered these, but they weren't particularly different from other crime scenes—except that the victim's a rich bastard instead of a poor one. You think they're connected?"

"You look at the details and tell me."

"I'll get to work on it."

"Good luck, Jim." With a few movements, the giant shadow was gone, leaving Gordon to his work.

**Chapter Twelve**

Jenn lay on her stomach on the couch, chin resting on her arm, her other arm holding a book, the pages of which her eyes moved over slowly, taking in the information.

She read relatively undisturbed until something very heavy settled right on her butt. She wasn't sure whether to scowl or laugh out loud, and she turned to regard Bruce, who was holding the remote and turning on the news as if nothing were amiss, sitting very calmly on her derrière.

"Um… hello?" she said, when he didn't look at her.

"Hmm? Oh, hi, Jenn," he said with a feigned distractedness. Her eyes narrowed slightly. So _that_ was the way he wanted to play.

"There are other seats in the room, you know, Bruce," she informed him matter-of-factly.

"I know," he said, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Bruce, sod off!" she ordered, giving a half-hearted jerk of her hips to try (unsuccessfully) to dislodge him. "Your butt's bony and it's digging into me!" She tried not to blush at what she'd just said, but it finally got attention and he turned his head to regard her with an all-too-wicked look in his eye. She just gazed back defiantly, wishing she had powers like the possessed girl on the Exorcist and could turn her head all the way around so that her glare could be fully effective.

"But your butt's so comfortable," he said with a twitch of his mouth, settling into his seat, which, unfortunately, still happened to be her butt. She laughed.

"Bruce Wayne, are you implying that my butt's big?"

"Where would you get that idea?"

"Because comfortable usually equals soft, and soft in the butt area is fat. And you're avoiding my question."

"Well, I beg forgiveness," he said. "Your butt isn't big or soft in any way. It's just comfortable. Your butt is perfect." Jenn barely had time to re-register that this conversation was insane and secretly embarrassing before a voice came from the doorway.

"Well, as stimulating as this conversation must be," Alfred said, "I'm afraid I must interrupt."

Jenn blushed fiercely, but Bruce just grinned at his butler. "What is it, Alfred?"

"There is a gentleman at the gates demanding assistance—a Mr. Alek Redgrove, if I'm not mistaken."

Amusement disappeared from the situation, and Bruce got up immediately, cutting off the TV. He reached down, taking Jenn's hand and lending her some aid in getting up herself before leading her to a screen that looked down over the gate, a silent question in his eyes.

"That's him," Jenn said quietly, upon looking at the screen and seeing her father's limousine idling at the iron gates.

"Okay," Bruce responded, turning to Alfred. "Let him in." He turned back to Jenn, who looked as if she didn't quite know what to think. "I'm going to take care of this," he said, retaining his grip on her hand as he gazed steadily at her. "He's not going to find you, but you have to go wait in your room."

"Bruce—"

" _No arguments._ He's not going to find you." Jenn looked intensely at him, and then gave a small nod, pulling away and disappearing around the corner.

Once out of his sight, Jenn stopped and pressed her back against the wall, feeling her knees give out as she slid down the smooth vertical expanse. She hated feeling so weak. She hated knowing that her father held the power to do anything he pleased, and the only way she could escape from that would be to run. To constantly hide.

He wasn't going to give this up. As much as she hated to admit it, her father was the biggest and most formidable enemy in her life. An enemy that she couldn't do anything about—she doubted, should the opportunity ever arise, even be justified, that she could pull the trigger on him. As much as she despised him, he was still her father. He'd given her life.

Despite that, she was scared. He'd threatened her before, but she'd never known just how deadly he could be—she'd had suspicions, of course, but nothing had ever been confirmed. And he was ruthless. She knew for sure that he wouldn't stop this pursuit until he'd hunted her down and dragged her back home, kicking and screaming as the case might be, just to prove that he _could._ After that, after he'd rubbed it in her face long enough, she had little doubt that he would hesitate to kill her or have her killed. She knew too much now.

_He's not going to find you._

Bruce's promise rang in her ears. She asked herself, shutting her eyes, if she trusted him. The answer came to her instantly and fervidly: _yes._ So many people would say that she was stupid. She hadn't known him long enough; his reputation wasn't the best, et cetera. She didn't know for herself why the unexplained absolute faith was there—it just _was._

No, she trusted Bruce with all of her heart. It was her _father_ that she didn't trust. He might not be a subtle man, but he was definitely a manipulative one. If he tricked Bruce into saying something…

Finding her strength, she pushed herself up. If things got bad, she'd have to interfere. No matter what it cost.

Knowing the house's layout—which she'd managed to learn well enough, though she by no means had it memorized—her father would probably come in through the main foyer, where, if she was lucky, they'd stay. Quickly, she took a shortcut, cutting barefooted through a dining room and another living room, till she reached one of the music rooms, where she inched towards the doorway, listening.

"…surprised by this visit," Bruce was saying. She heard a bit of movement.

"You have a very nice setup here," came that hated voice suddenly, her father's lazy intonation. She unconsciously tensed.

"It's sort of a Wayne thing," said Bruce, and she heard that lazy, insolent arrogance in his voice that was so often present when he was talking to the bluebloods of Gotham.

A grim smile came over her face. _How do you like that, you stupid-_

"Let me cut to the chase, Mr. Wayne," her father said, and she could hear his held-back anger in his voice. "My daughter has disappeared."

"Yes. It was on the news," Bruce said languidly. "My deepest sympathy."

"So you know nothing about it?" Alek's voice was sharp, now, demanding.

"Why?" Bruce asked. "Why ask me? Jennifer hates me."

 _Jennifer? Nice one, Bruce…_ Maybe he didn't know that she hated being called Jennifer. Maybe it was just unconscious intuition that he followed, but it would certainly serve to show her father that they were on less-than-friendly terms… even if it was a lie.

"Did you see the _Inquisitor_ , Mr. Wayne?" She forced herself not to wince, wanting to see how Bruce would react.

"Oh, that picture of us?" He took it in stride. "I was trying to talk to her, but she wanted nothing to do with me. Occasionally the reputation helps, but sometimes it doesn't." He chuckled, sounding exactly like the arrogant, womanizing rich-boy he was playing.

_Maybe you should have been an actor, Bruce… you're definitely good at it._

"Then you're _certain_ she's not here."

"Unless she's been hiding in the house unbeknownst to me for the past few days…" He meaningfully trailed off. There was a long pause, and then she heard Alek sigh.

"Very well. But I must insist that if you _do_ find her, to bring her to me immediately. She has some mental issues that are as of yet unresolved, for which she needs immediate therapy."

"What are her symptoms, if I may ask?" asked Bruce politely.

"Paranoia is among the worst. She seems determined that I'm going to try and kill her." Alek chuckled at the end of this statement. Bruce joined in for a moment.

"I'll let you know, Mr. Redgrove."

"Thank you."

Business seemed to be over after that. Jenn left as silently as she had come.

* * *

"Jenn, girl, when are you headed out?"

"Not anytime soon," Jenn said quietly into the phone, talking to her best friend. "Lauren, there's news."

"Oo… on the subject of you and the hot guy?"

"His name is _Bruce_ , Lauren," Jenn said, trying not to roll her eyes. "And no, no progress there."

"Do I detect a certain sense of wistfulness?"

"No," said Jenn defensively.

"Oh, come on. Something had to have happened between you two."

"I hugged him and he sat on my butt," said Jenn bluntly. "That's it. Happy now?" There was silence.

"You know," Lauren said after a minute, "you have a way of making _everything_ unromantic."

"You can't make something unromantic if there was no romance there to begin with," said Jenn, rolling her eyes.

"Jenn, honey, I can feel the chemistry there just by _talking_ to you."

"Shut up," said Jenn, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "I have to tell you something."

"Then tell me."

"My father's looking for me."

"Well, duh."

"He's telling people that I'm crazy."

"Behind in the news, isn't he? I've been telling people that for years."

" _Lauren_ …"

"So you're staying with Wayne?" Lauren sounded way too excited. Jenn scowled.

"Yes. He said I could stay as long as I need to."

"Not as long as you want?" Lauren sounded slightly disappointed. "Oh well… at least he's giving you _something._ "

"He promised that my Dad wouldn't find me."

"Wow." Lauren now sounded awed. "Surprisingly sweet. Very romantic."

"You have problems. Serious, serious issues."

"So how does it feel to be the kettle?"

"You have it the wrong way round, Lauren. I'd be the pot."

"I know. I just knew that you wouldn't get it if I said 'how does it feel to be the pot?' Plus, you just admitted that you _were_ a pot."

"You need a psychiatrist."

"Apparently, you need one more, since your _Dad's_ saying you're insane."

"If you're in need of a psychiatrist," came a voice from Jenn's doorway, "I know of a good one."

"Who's that?" squealed Lauren, as Jenn turned to see Bruce there looking amused.

"Hang on one second, Lauren," she said. She brought the phone away from her ear and covered the mouthpiece so that her friend couldn't hear. "I'm guessing you speak from prior experience?" she asked with a half-smile, even while she fought a blush at the thought that he might have been there the whole time.

"Actually, no—I just know someone." He paused, and mock-frowned. "Of course, the fact that he's locked up and probably insane now might hinder his ability to give you an accurate analysis of your mental condition."

"Okay, that's a story you're going to have to tell me," Jenn said, the eyebrow arching higher.

"Jenn, QUIT COVERING THE DAMN MOUTHPIECE!" came Lauren's voice suddenly and loudly from the phone, the Englishwoman having finally caught on to what her friend was doing. Jenn ignored her, and Bruce looked in the phone's direction.

"Lauren," Jenn said, holding up the phone. "She's the one who needs the shrink."

"WAYNE! WAYNE! ARE YOU THERE?! I HAVE SOMETHING YOU HAVE TO KNOW—"

"O-kay," Jenn said, using her other hand to clamp over the other half of the phone and cut off Lauren's tinny voice. "Sorry, she hasn't had her meds today." She put the phone to her ear. "Lauren, I'm calling you back."

"What? NO, I—" her voice was cut off as Jenn set the phone firmly on the handset.

"You didn't have to do that," Bruce said, frowning slightly. Jenn got to her bare feet, crossing her arms.

"No, I'm just glad you came in and saved me. She can be very overwhelming sometimes. Like, every time I talk to her."

"No, I mean I wanted to know what she was going to say," he said, humor in his tone again as she crossed the room towards him. Her eyes widened slightly and she laughed.

"Oh, come on! Surely you don't want to hear her insane ramblings."

"It seemed like she had something to tell me."

"I very much doubt it'd be something you'd want to hear."

"Yeah, and you're blushing."

"So?" She brought her hands up to cool her cheeks, still managing to look defiant in the process as she reached him. "It's a free country. I can blush whenever I want."

"By all means, keep on," Bruce encouraged, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "It's actually kind of cute." That only served to make her face pinken further.

"Jerk," she muttered, studying the floor intensely. He laughed.

"Right now, yes. Unfortunately, you're stuck with me."

"I could sneak out," she said brightly, looking up.

"You could, but do you really want to?"

"No. Not after what you've done for me," she said, turning serious.

"Jenn, you don't have to—"

"I mean it. Thank you, Bruce." He was close enough… before she could lose her nerve, she stood on tiptoe, using his shoulders for balance, and kissed him on the cheek. When she came away the room felt uncomfortably hot. She knew she was blushing. "It… means a lot to me," she mumbled, staring at the ground and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

There was a moment's silence, and then he surprised her by reaching up, fingers brushing her cheekbone for a second. She met his eyes for a second, and he smiled. "Not a problem," he said.

Then he was gone.

* * *

While Jenn was out walking late one morning, as she frequently did as the day warmed up, Bruce—who'd just emerged from bed ten minutes earlier—headed down to the kitchen for his first meal of the day, not including the nutrition/protein shake he habitually downed before the drill of pushups. Alfred was there, and he quietly dealt out Bruce's adequate portion of rice and vegetables.

Some might question Bruce's odd eating habits—wasn't breakfast an eggs and bacon meal? And why did he eat so simply when he could easily have dozens of gourmet chefs at his beck and call? However, at the monastery he'd had habits of excellent nutrition drilled into him, learned to actually _taste_ what was going into his mouth, and after being taught that, he realized that simplicity was best. When he'd returned from his seven-year excursion and Alfred began cooking up lavish epicurean meals, he'd been unsure of how to break it to his butler that the food was making him nauseous.

When he'd finally mentioned it to Alfred—or rather, when Alfred had picked up on it—the butler had asked him why he hadn't mentioned it before—apparently, Alfred was spending half of his time in the kitchen and the other half in the grocery store. To the relief of both, simpler fare became the norm.

That had been a point of mild concern for Bruce when Jenn had first come to live with them—he was unsure of what she preferred, and resolved that if he noted any objection from her attitude, then he'd ask Alfred to prepare her separate meals. Contrary to what he'd been half expecting, Jenn seemed delighted that they had a sufficient lack of gourmet meals, almost as delighted as she'd been when she'd found out that they ate in the kitchen instead of one of the many huge dining rooms.

He'd admit it, he'd laughed at her when she'd expressed her contentment, earning him a tiny clump of rice hitting him directly on the nose. He'd retaliated by flicking a green bean at her that hit her in the head and stuck in her hair, and they'd tried to make their miniature food fight unobtrusive as possible until Alfred had commented, without looking up from his own meal, that if they were finished redecorating the kitchen with vegetables that they might try putting the food in their _mouths_ , making them work hard to restrain laughter. Bruce had a suspicion that Alfred wasn't at all annoyed.

"Where's Jenn?" Bruce wanted to know, as Alfred sat across the table from him, folding out a newspaper.

"She left for a walk about twenty minutes ago," Alfred said, peering over the top of the paper at the younger man. Bruce nodded, satisfied with this response, only to look up a moment later.

"She's different, isn't she, Alfred?"

"Most definitely. Different from anyone you've ever 'dated' in the past, different even from Miss Dawes. She's kind as well."

"I'd noticed," Bruce said with a wry grin. He shifted slightly and then fixed his butler with an earnest glance. "Do _you_ like her?"

"Yes, Master Bruce," said Alfred, repressing a smile. "Do _you?_ "

"Yes," Bruce said resolutely.

"As I assumed when you came bursting inside with her in tow. She's the first woman I've ever seen you bring home, Master Bruce—even though your relationship is… unconventional, to say the least." Bruce grinned as Alfred pretended to read. "Is this a search for approval or simply your curiosity shining through, Master Bruce?"

"I trust her, Alfred," said Bruce simply. Alfred glanced up.

"Enough to confide your greatest secret, sir?"

"Yes."

"I won't dispute you."

"Do you want to?"

"In all honesty, no. It's high time you dropped the playboy act."

"Weren't you the one recommending that last year?"

"Yes, sir, but that was last year. As we say—enough is enough." Bruce grinned again, almost in relief.

"Good. I get tired of that." He then turned thoughtful, working his jaw. "I guess it's a matter of waiting for the right time to tell her," he said. "About Batman, I mean."

"Quite so, sir," said Alfred. Bruce finished his meal in contemplative silence.

* * *

Alfred picked up the phone after it had rung twice, answering very calmly and very properly. It was the second line, meaning that it was probably a private call, but that didn't relax his greeting. The sound of wind blowing into the phone of whomever he was speaking to didn't escape his notice, but he decided to ignore it instead of raise a protest.

"Yeah—who's this?" came the almost shouted words in a young, female tone, the British accent ringing clear. Alfred lifted his eyebrows slightly.

"Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne's butler," he responded composedly. "Who's this?"

"You say your name's Pennywhistle?"

"Pennyworth."

"Spendykirk?"

" _Penny—"_ he began, but then decided that it wasn't worth it. "May I ask who's calling?"

"Oh, right… this is Lauren. What?" she said to someone who'd addressed her incomprehensibly from the background. "No, I think it's that cool butler that Jenn was talking about, the one she was afraid to say 'testicles' in front of. At least, he _sounds_ kind of British." Alfred's eyebrows lifted another fraction of an inch. "Yeah, she mentioned someone named—hey, hey Al, you still there?"

"I'm sorry, Miss, were you trying to reach someone?" he asked.

"Geez, stuffy. Lighten up a little bit." He fought a smile, telling himself that this wasn't supposed to be funny. "Look, I'm trying to reach Jenn. I'm sure you know her—Jenn Redgrove? Average height,, kind of thin build, originally brown hair, brown eyes—wow, this girl sounds pretty standard, huh?" she asked whoever was with her.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but there's no one of that name here." Master Bruce had told him that Jenn was to remain safe and hidden, so obviously no one calling the manor was to be told of her residence there. Lying for the right reasons was a necessary talent in his occupation.

"Wow—you mean she and this Wayne guy already tied the knot? Fast-moving, kudos to her. I don't know if I'll give up my last name for whoever I marry, but Jenn always was a traditional girl… what?" she said to the person with her. "Oh. Right. Some big secret or whatever. I'm no freakish danger to her; I just got the number off of my cell phone. Look, just tell her that _Lauren Malton_ called and that she'd better call me back if she knows what's good for her, all right?"

"I assure you, Miss, that there is no Jenn currently presiding here—"

"Yeah. Uh-huh. I understand, it's some big protection thing. Good for you and this Wayne guy—he must be more decent than I thought. Decent for a billionaire, anyway. Just give her the message, please. Thanks! Bye!" There was a click, and Alfred stood for a few seconds, trying to absorb the entire message, till the dial tone started, and then realizing what he was doing, he hung up the phone.

He turned to see Jenn entering the room, hair damp from the morning's washing, and she smiled at him. "Morning, Alfred."

"Good morning, Miss Redgrove," he said courteously.

"Gah," she said, tossing her hands in the air. "Are you _ever_ going to call me Jenn?"

"I'm afraid not, Miss Redgrove. Not until something drastic occurs," he said, eyes twinkling.

"Fine. I give up," she said resignedly, crossing the room to one of the bookcases and scanning the titles, bringing up her index finger to brush the spines of the tomes.

"Miss Redgrove, do you know anyone by the name of Lauren Malton?" Alfred asked after a moment. Her motion stopped completely for a second, and then she turned to him.

"Yes," she said after a second, brow wrinkled slightly. "In England, she was my best friend."

"Oh," said Alfred, assuaging her ungrounded fears, "I mention it because she just called the mansion and wished to speak to you."

"Oh." She relaxed minutely, and then looked up, confused again. "How did she get this number?"

"She mentioned getting it off her cell phone, Miss."

"Right. I'd forgotten the two-way numbers," she said.

"She seemed very insistent on talking to you. I believe her exact words were 'tell her that Lauren Malton called and that she'd better call me back if she knows what's good for her'."

"Wow. You have a good memory," she said, looking admiringly at him. "Yes, that sounds like her. Hmm. Well, she can wait. Thanks, though."

"It's my job, Miss Redgrove."

"It's more than that, though," she said after a moment of acutely observing him. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," he replied after barely a moment's hesitation. "Yes, it is."

"How long have you taken care of Bruce?"

"Since he was born, Miss."

"Working for the Waynes?"

"Sometimes it feels like forever," he said with gleaming eyes. She glanced at him for a second, and then chuckled.

"Yeah… I guess it must seem like that sometimes." She turned back to the bookcase, and he could see the uncertainty in her stature, heard the hesitance before she spoke. "Bruce… he's really something different, isn't he?"

Alfred hid a shrewd smile, even though she wasn't facing him. It seemed that his suspicions, already confirmed by Master Bruce, were being reinforced by her manner. He didn't give it too long now before she realized what he already knew.

"Yes, Miss. More so than you know."


	2. Part Two

**Chapter Thirteen**

Ryan Rowe stared with no great certainty at the man in front of him, crossing his arms over his chest and staring with respectful but mistrustful eyes.

"No, sir," he said, keeping his tone respectful, as he was certain that this man could have him fired faster than he could blink. He was, after all, the owner of Nocturne. "Haven't seen Jenn around here since about two weeks ago. She's obviously been busy, huh?"

"Well, Mr. Rowe," said Alek calmly, a hint of friendliness as well as worry in his tone, "I have good reason to believe she's been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" repeated Ryan, sounding less certain. "I'd heard she'd gone away… but kidnapped? Are you sure?"

"Well, did she seem the type of girl to run away?" Alek asked him. Ryan surveyed him slowly, and then shook his head.

"No… no, not really. I just assumed it was a temporary thing, that she'd be back."

Alek nodded thoughtfully, rubbing lightly at his chin, considering. "Well, here's the thing. _I_ believe she's kidnapped, but I don't think _she_ knows it yet." At Ryan's confused look, he held up a hand. "Now, I know that sounds confusing, but I think that someone might have convinced her to run away and that she thinks it was _her_ idea."

"And if she tries to leave whoever this was?"

"She won't be allowed," said Alek with a grim look. "I'm not sure of their motive, but I know that whoever it is is taking advantage of my daughter. I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Mr. Rowe, but Jenn has a mild mental problem that enhances paranoia towards many trustworthy people, among other things."

"Mental problem," said Ryan, raising his eyebrows with open skepticism now.

"Yes."

"She never seemed crazy at all."

"Well, that's because she's not all-out insane. She appears very normal, for which I'm thankful, but it'll fire up every so often—she was having one of these fits the night before she disappeared."

"Shouldn't she be receiving treatment, then?"

"I was working on getting her to accept counseling, but she continued to refuse, and now it's too late." Alek sighed, and then reached into his pocket, handing Ryan something. "That number will connect you to me. If you hear any news, if Jenn reveals herself to you—please, call me."

"Mr. Redgrove—"

"I'm just asking you to consider it. For her own good." Alek looked at him earnestly, and finally, Ryan sighed, tucking the card into the back pocket of his jeans. "Good man," Alek said, shaking the younger man's hand.

Ryan nodded shortly and watched as Alek climbed into his stretch limousine and drove off, and then turned, hands in his pockets, kicking with a booted foot at the gravel drive as doubt assailed his thoughts.

* * *

"Oh, come on, Bruce. Where's your sense of adventure?" Jenn asked, flashing a grin over her shoulder at him from where she was standing at the sink, washing her hands. Bruce, lifting his eyebrows at the blatant challenge in her tone, leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his black t-shirt, lifting one at the elbow to bite into an apple.

"Very active," he responded with gleaming eyes, "but since I haven't done this since I was a little kid, you'll have to forgive me if I'm not jumping up and down, squealing with joy."

Jenn paused for a second, and then burst out laughing, dipping her head low in a vain attempt to hide it. Bruce just continued to regard her with smiling eyes till she recovered, finishing the rinse and drying her hands. "That's nice," she said with a smirk, "but trust me, you'll enjoy this, and since it's Alfred's day off and he's not here to make you stick around, I guess I'll have to do it."

" _Make_ me, huh?"

"If I can." She turned around, surveying him, and a smile pulled at her mouth. "Since I'm barefooted, though, and that makes your height all that more intimidating, I think I can safely say that you're not going to be afraid of me so you'll do whatever you want."

"Yep," he agreed nonchalantly, mouth full as he'd just taken another bite of apple. "That sounds about right." She gave him an odd look and then chuckled as her mind took an unsystematic train of thought.

"Have you ever peeled a potato?" she said arbitrarily.

"Um… not that I remember."

"When I do, I'm always afraid I'm going to grate off a piece of my skin." He gave her a look that said he didn't know whether to laugh or throw his apple away.

"You know, I think your father was right when he said that you're insane," he said complacently. She gave him a filthy look and he laughed.

"Now I'm not going to sleep tonight, knowing that you and my father agree on something. Thanks a lot, Bruce."

"Never a problem, Jenn." She tried to scowl at him, but failed spectacularly, lapsing into a grin as she pushed her hair back over her shoulders. In light of the steadily declining temperature, she wore a wine red, cowl-necked long-sleeved shirt, with flared blue jeans encasing her legs smoothly and no shoes. Bruce, on the other hand, wore all black—she'd told him earlier that he should have worn bright orange pants in light of the season, and he'd just given her a look that was doused in skepticism, making her laugh aloud.

"What's wrong?" she asked innocently, moving past him towards the table. "Halloween's tomorrow. You don't want to give some pumpkins a lobotomy? _Tell_ me that it won't be fun."

"You're _really_ in a gruesome state of mind, aren't you?" She laughed, waving her a hand towards the two large pumpkins on the table.

"I can't claim it to be my fault," she said cheekily. "It's just a matter of habit. You should hear what Lauren had to say about them."

"I think I'll pass, thanks," said Bruce with an ironic snort.

"Good for you, you're finally wising up. You mind passing me that butcher knife behind you?" Bruce half-twisted to see what she was talking about, then located the large blade, picking it up with the hand that didn't hold the apple and pushing himself from his languid position leaning against the counter, handing the knife to her.

"Been a while since I did this," she said, pausing for a second to press lightly against the blade with her fingertip, applying enough pressure to test the sharpness but not enough to cut herself, and then, taking a breath, sank the tip into the top of the pumpkin, around the stem. "Sure you don't want to take this job off my hands?" she asked, teasingly looking at Bruce.

"It's too much fun to watch you," he said with a smirk. She rolled her eyes, but dutifully sawed the tops off both pumpkins, leaving a moderately big circular space with a small rectangle cut off. The giant orange vegetables already looked quite peculiar, having sheets of paper with facial designs on them pinned to their round sides, beneath which had been poked hundreds of tiny holes, marking the outline.

This done, she set down the knife and looked around for a second before crossing the kitchen again, poking around the bottom cabinets. Bruce lifted his eyebrows. "What're you looking for?"

"Bowl," she said, "to put the pumpkin intestines in." He paused, and then shook his head, looking slightly revolted.

"Do you _have_ to act like the pumpkins are human?"

"Where's the fun in them just being pumpkins?" she asked, resurfacing from the cabinet with a smile that he swore she practiced at night in front of her mirror, it was so evilly innocent. "It isn't half as fun carving pumpkins if you don't pretend you're eviscerating someone you hate."

"Where was I when this was being taught?" he mused, biting again into the apple.

"Oh, wait. I forgot. You're _old_ , so you wouldn't know all of this younger generation stuff." He stalked across the kitchen towards her with a growl, and she ducked away with a laugh.

"No need to make me sound like your father," he said, ignoring the grimace of protest she gave at the comparison. "I happen to not even be ten years older than you."

"So?" she asked, sticking her tongue out at him.

"So I happen to be _part_ of your generation, Madame." She just smirked at him.

"I could continue this argument, but I won't, in favor of telling you that you distracted me. _Bowl._ "

"Fine, fine," he groused, looking around for a second before settling on a bottom cabinet to his left and crouching to explore it. "You know, you could have just asked me to begin with and saved yourself the trouble of looking."

"But I'm not helpless," she said as he pulled his head and non apple-holding arm out of the cabinet again, offering a metal bowl, which she examined and then shook her head. "No, it's got to be bigger. These pumpkins are huge, remember?" He rolled his eyes and returned the bowl to its place, shutting the cabinet again and rising to his feet.

It took him a second to think, since he didn't frequent the kitchen except to eat, but he eventually lit on one of the upper cupboards, which he pointed out to her. "Top shelf of that cabinet," he said.

She turned to examine it appraisingly, opening it, but she was most definitely too short to reach the top shelf. She crossed her arms and turned to Bruce, hoping that he couldn't tell that her annoyance was fake. He looked back at her, deadpan.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Your kitchen discriminates against short people," she said, also straight-faced.

"Come on, you're not short," he said, a spark of mischief in his green eyes. "The cabinet's just taller than you."

"Very funny. The fact still remains that I can't reach the bowls."

"So… you need a boost?" he asked, setting his finished apple core to the side.

"You _could_ just reach up and get it for me."

"I could, but it might make you feel _helpless_ ," he said, teasingly mimicking her. She shot a faux glare at him, and then sighed resignedly.

"Fine. Guess it'd be better than climbing all over the counters," she said.

She was slightly surprised at the ease with which he lifted her, taking her by the hips and raising her up as if she were a bag of feathers to the level of the top shelf. She reached and got the giant bowl from the cabinet, making a sound of affirmation to let him know she had it, and he brought her down again, setting her on her feet.

She surveyed him skeptically, setting the bowl on the counter and brushing a strand of hair out of her face before turning and pulling herself to an upright sitting position on the counter. "For a billionaire, you're disturbingly strong," she remarked with a smile.

He smirked, turning to stand in front of her, placing his hands on the counter on either side of her to support him. "Why's that surprising?"

"Because…" she said, finding it surprisingly difficult to concentrate on what she wanted to say with his face mere inches from her own. "Because people as rich as you and my father don't usually have to physically as work as much as normal people." He gave a gruff laugh.

"I don't know," he said, a stray strand of hair falling down across his forehead. "You might be surprised."

They stopped talking, staring at one another. Slowly, slowly the gap between their faces began to close, until there was only an inch or so left. They lingered like that for a second, until Bruce leaned forward, closing the space and pressing his mouth softly against hers.

At first, it was purely sweet, just a chaste resting of mouth upon mouth. Jenn felt herself going weak and brought her hands up, gripping at Bruce's arms to support herself. He moved his hands from the counter, his right up to grip her upraised arm, his left to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

She then felt his mouth parting, tongue sweeping lightly against her lips, and she gave a small gasp into his mouth, her own lips separating. He took this as an invitation, and she lost control of thought as his tongue gently pushed through. After a momentary almost trance-like state, she began to return the ministrations fervently, feeling his tongue explore every hollow of her mouth and doing the same, twining sweetly with his.

She was unsure of how long this small paradise went on before she became aware that something was trying its hardest to interrupt them. She tried to ignore it, but it was becoming harder and harder, and she could tell from Bruce's lessening attentions that he was noticing it too. Finally, she dragged her mind from its pleasurable haze in order to realize that it was a beeper.

Bruce broke away from her, and they stared at each other, drinking the sight in, but the beeper wasn't relenting. "Damn it," Bruce muttered as he pulled back to check it, making Jenn work to suppress a laugh despite herself and her own annoyance at the stupid appliance. Her eyes began roaming the kitchen for a hammer they could use to smash it so they could get back to…

Shit.

Bruce Wayne had just kissed her.

"This means it's important… I'm sorry, Jenn, I've got to take this," he said, looking very peeved and very apologetic. She just nodded, unsure of whether she could talk if she _wanted_ to, and he left the room quickly.

She slowly slid from the counter, taking hold of the bowl with one hand as if it were a dream, and ran her free hand through her hair.

_Shit._

_Bruce_ _Wayne_ had just _kissed_ her _._

She figured that it was safe to assume that this was going to complicate things a fair bit.

* * *

When Bruce returned, he found Jenn cheerfully plopping pumpkin guts into the gigantic bowl using a big spoon, and she glanced up at him with a small smile.

"Get to work, lazy bum," she said, sounding quite normal, even though her slightly swollen lips and flushed cheeks spoke otherwise. "We still have pumpkins to carve. Don't think I'm letting you off the hook."

He stared at her for a second, but she just continued her work. Finally, he reached for one of the penknives she'd somehow scrounged up, deciding that right now, she just didn't want to talk about it. He could understand, and he could wait.

With both of them pretending that it had never happened, they managed a fairly entertaining evening. She set Bruce to work carving the first pumpkin, and he'd paused halfway through, perplexed to see her sorting the pumpkin seeds from the bright orange pulp and scattering them on a foil-covered cooking tray. She'd seemed almost affronted that he'd never had pumpkin seeds before then and seemed determined to right that wrong as soon as possible.

After getting the seeds in the oven, she took the job of carving the second pumpkin. Within an hour, both were done, and Jenn insisted on shutting off all the lights and just sitting and looking at the ghastly things, lit from within with small light bulbs. Bruce had humored her, and she'd also resolutely stated that he was going to have pumpkin seeds and he was going to have them _now._

After trying them, he pretended not to notice her expectant gaze, till she finally let out a noise of exasperation. "Come on!"

"Come on, what?"

"What do you think?"

"Of what?" She gave him a look that clearly told him she didn't find him amusing, and he smirked slightly. "The seeds? They're… good."

"Good?"

"What else do you want?" She gave a fake sigh of exasperation.

"Well, since I suppose I'm not getting anything else out of you…" She paused, looking at the pumpkins. "I wish I was a kid and could go trick or treating again."

"If you really want to, I'm sure I can arrange it." She gave him a skeptical look, not sure whether to laugh or disagree, and finally decided on the former.

"I'm sure you could. But, no… not unless I could persuade you to dress up as… I don't know, the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz."

"Snowball's chance in hell."

"See? Told you it wouldn't work." He snorted with amusement.

"Well, maybe if you were Dorothy…" He stopped and laughed when she made a gruesome face.

"Ugh, no! I always really, really disliked Dorothy. It might have been because of my whole Judy-Garland-Scares-Me stage, but I always got mad at her for slapping the Cowardly Lion."

"I think you're insane."

"I think you're right in here, keeping me company," came the quick riposte. He just laughed at her.

* * *

Sometimes at night, when he wasn't engaged in his normal activities, he ran. It was something that normal people would do, so it wouldn't matter if he was seen—as opposed to the complex martial arts that would stick out in someone's mind—and he enjoyed the physical exertion.

Sometimes it irritated the bruises beneath his skin, but that was something he could deal with—for the most part, it was almost relaxing compared to fighting thugs. There was no enclosure, since the manor was a safe distance from the city, and he could run miles at a time without stopping. Running was a versatile activity—one had the option to either think or focus completely on the activity of their bodies. That night in particular, he decided on the former—he had much to sort out, not in the least of which was the kiss from earlier that day.

By the time he returned, it had to be at least one in the morning, but oddly enough he wasn't tired. He headed for one of the back entrances, through the gardens, and started when he saw an unexpected shape there, quickly relaxing despite perplexity when he realized that it was Jenn.

"What are you doing out here?" he said, not bothering to whisper, since no one else was around to be disturbed. Jenn rose from the steps upon which she'd been sitting, crossing her arms for warmth—she was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, he assumed for sleeping purposes, and looked him over.

"Looking at the sky," she responded simply. "Inside the city, pollution clogs it up. Out here, you just get a sense of reality that you don't have there." He wiped at the light sheen of sweat that covered his face, turning to glance up at the blanket of blue that covered most of his range of vision.

"I think that's why my ancestors built the manor way out here." She nodded, her gaze trailing towards the moon before lowering to him.

"You know what _I_ was doing out here, but what about you? Isn't it a little unusual to be outside at one-thirty in the morning?" she asked, an eyebrow raised but no extra suspicion behind the question, just curiosity.

"Running," he explained. "I couldn't sleep." She nodded again, this elucidation satisfying her, as he gestured towards the door. "You ready to go in?"

"Yeah," she said, turning and twisting the knob, entering the house before him.

He followed as she led the way to the main staircase, noting with amusement that she seemed to know the layout of the house now as if she'd lived there all her life. When they reached the stairs, before she could turn around, he laid a hand on her shoulder and bent close to speak into her ear—now that they were inside, whispering seemed more appropriate, he told himself. "Doesn't seem like you're planning on getting lost anytime soon."

She shivered slightly, turning. "Wha—oh," she said, her mind jumping to their conversation of the first day. "Well, when you have to learn something, it's best to learn it fast," she said with a bit of a shrug. He looked down at her with a bit of a smile, and she fidgeted slightly under his gaze. "It's late."

"I know," he said, memories of earlier that afternoon coming up unbidden in his mind. According to the darkening of her eyes, her mind was going along the same track.

Without really thinking about it, his hand came up to rest on the side of her neck. She gave a small gasp but didn't seem at all disinclined to the contact, inadvertently shifting closer and lifting her hand to grasp his wrist. That was all the encouragement he needed as he leaned forward to taste her lips for the second time.

 _This could be a bad idea,_ he thought, trying not to completely lose his thoughts in the drugging kiss. This proved to be difficult, though, as she reacted by moving even closer, her body fitting neatly into his, parting her lips at the requesting sweep of his tongue and responding.

Time disappeared in a way it never had in what kisses he'd had prior to this. For a nameless amount of time, it was only them.

Then she pulled away.

He tried to repress the disappointment he felt as she turned her head away distractedly, obviously trying to recover. A stray scent hit his nostrils, and he inhaled pleasurably—she smelled natural, fruity—melon, if he wasn't mistaken—unlike the reeking, too-strong perfumes and hairspray of the women he'd 'dated'. She looked up again to meet his eyes, her own visibly darker—he imagined his were in such a state as well—and bit her lip.

"We shouldn't be doing this," she said quietly. "It's too late."

He lifted an eyebrow at her reasoning, but raised no protest. He wasn't going to push her. With a nod, he dropped his hand and stepped away.

In silence, they ascended the stairs. In the hallway, he turned to go to his own room, but she surprised him by tugging on his elbow. When he turned back, she stood on her tiptoes, putting her hands on his broad shoulders, and placed one last kiss on his mouth. His hands moved to her waist in surprise, but he wasn't complaining.

When she pulled away, she was smiling. "Good night," she said, her tone too innocent to be true, her smile just on the side of a smirk. He'd always known that she had a bit of minx in her.

He responded properly and she turned away, heading down the hall. He watched until she entered her room, shutting the door quietly behind her, and then turned and headed in his own direction.

* * *

When Alfred returned the next morning, he became aware very quickly that the atmosphere had definitely changed. Master Bruce and Miss Redgrove talked to each other as much as ever, but there was a restlessness about them that hadn't been there before. For most of the day, he was forced to suppress his smiles, wondering idly how long it would be before the two finally came to terms with what was happening to them.

Till then, he'd wait and be amused… possibly lend a clue to one or the other if it seemed it would take too long.

**Chapter Fourteen**

Jenn tried to at least pretend that she was perusing the pages of her book, but knew that if truth be told, she was so far from it that it was laughable. It seemed that she couldn't concentrate on anything nowadays, and she blamed Bruce for it. If he hadn't gone and kissed her… twice… and of course, when she'd kissed him back, it hadn't helped matters.

Her feelings, which had been so nicely bottled up before the evening before, were now flooding her mind with an intensity that almost scared her. In some faraway part of her common sense, she knew that it would be far less complicated if she and Bruce had remained on a 'strictly-friends' basis… but there was _no way_ she was going to regret what had happened. It was too amazing, overwhelming for that.

_Argh, I can't figure this out!_

She brought the book down to the table beside the chair with a louder slam than she intended, and winced at the voice from behind her.

"Did the book offend you, Miss Redgrove?"

"Oops," she murmured abashedly, giving the tome a dirty look for getting her in trouble before standing and turning to see Alfred, regarding her with that amused sparkle in his eyes again. "No… sorry."

"Oh, I think you'll find that our volumes are quite hardy," Alfred said. She smiled sheepishly. "There was a call for you—by the same young lady as last time, if I'm not mistaken."

"You still telling her I'm not here?"

"Master Bruce thinks it's wise."

"If Bruce says so, then," she said. "Speaking of Bruce, where is he?"

"Asleep, Miss Redgrove." She gave a brief chuckle.

"Still? He must go to bed pretty late. Either that, or he's really lazy." _Which I doubt, judging by his size,_ she mentally added. Alfred seemed to find this amusing as she crossed the room. "Okay, guess I'd better call Lauren back before she gets any weird ideas." She paused, and then rolled her eyes. "Although knowing her, she already has them. I wish you could meet her, Alfred. You'd be good for her, if she didn't drive you crazy first."

"Sometimes," Alfred said, shaking his head with those intelligently twinkling eyes, "I think I'm already mad as it is." She paused for a second, and then laughed with him. "But we must never say never, eh? Perhaps, in time, I'll meet this friend of yours."

"Maybe," Jenn said with a bit of a smile. She started to leave the room, and then ducked back in. "Oh, Alfred?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"Thanks."

* * *

 _Okay_ , thought Jenn as she dialed in her best friend's cell phone number. _Stay calm. Don't let her know that anything's amiss, or she'll never let you go._

"Hey, Jenn," came the pickup.

"How'd you know?" asked a slightly bemused Jenn.

"I have the Wayne house on my contacts list. How come that butler guy won't ever let me talk to you?"

"Protection thing," said Jenn.

"You don't need protection!" said Lauren indignantly.

"I don't know… like, say my father showed up and held all of you at gunpoint, and forced you to call the mansion and ask for me. Protection from that." There was a moment's silence.

"I doubt it's the Dick-tator's style to hold someone at gunpoint," came the comment finally. "I think he'd send someone to do it for him."

"I know—I was just making an example, Lauren," sighed Jenn. "Anyway, it's what Bruce thought was best, so—"

"Hold up, hold up!" said Lauren immediately. Jenn froze. "What was that?"

"What was what?" asked Jenn, trying to sound nonchalant.

"The way you said his name," said Lauren suspiciously. "It sounded like… I don't know, like you were going to eat him alive, and I don't mean in a cannibalistic way."

"Lauren Malton, I have _no_ idea what you're talking about," said Jenn.

"Yeah, and I set myself on fire on a regular basis!"

"Um… Lauren?"

"What?"

"You _do_ set yourself on fire on a regular basis."

"Oh. Not on purpose!"

"Doesn't matter."

"Jennifer Aislin Redgrove, _stop_ diverting the attention to my mistakes in phraseology. There's something you're not telling me, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it if it takes me all night."

Jenn paled. She had no doubt that Lauren would now hang on like her life depended on this tidbit of information, and was tempted to hang up. She knew, though, that if she did, Lauren would just call back over and over again, never tiring, just waiting for someone to pick up.

Sometimes having someone so single-minded as a best friend really sucked.

"Stop making such a big deal," she said, attempting a casual tone. "You make it sound like we've done something insane."

"So you _did_ do _something_?"

"I never said that. Stop putting words in my mouth!"

"I wouldn't have to if you just put them there yourself!"

"I'm going to ignore the fact that that only made sense in your warped world, and ask if there's _any_ chance you're going to let me talk about normal things."

"Nope." Lauren sounded triumphant, as if she knew that she was wearing her friend down. She probably did. She was, after all, _the_ Lauren Malton.

"Fine," sighed Jenn, resigning early, as she didn't feel like being manipulated into an answer. It sounded awful, but it was a best-friend thing. "What do you want to know?"

"What happened?" asked Lauren immediately.

"Um…"

"Jenn! No backing out!"

"I'm just trying to figure out what to say!" returned Jenn.

"Let me make it easy for you," Lauren said, and Jenn felt a sudden misgiving at the mischief in her friend's voice. "You and this Wayne guy had a sudden and impromptu frenzied session of hot monkey love. Am I close?"

"Not even!" whispered Jenn ferociously, aware of her flushing cheeks. "Lauren, why do you say crap like that?"

"It's not crap!" said Lauren indignantly. "It's creative."

"It's immature."

"Jenn, the world is my oyster. Who said I have to be mature? There's plenty of time for that _after_ I'm twenty-five. And I say it because you have so much trouble spitting out the easy stuff, so in comparison to my ideas this it should be painless."

"Fine," grumbled Jenn. "Umm… wekindofkissedlastnight."

"What?! You're serious?!" Lauren had no trouble deciphering her friend's rapid-fire talk, and sounded ecstatic.

"Um, yeah," Jenn said uncomfortably.

"Awesome! You _finally_ got around to it!" Jenn let out a noise of resentment, but Lauren continued rapidly. "So, did he kiss you or did you kiss him?"

"That's none of your business."

"Jenn. Don't make me tell Hannah."

"You blackmailer!"

"With pride. Tell me."

"He kissed me at the start," Jenn growled.

"Wow—our man Wayne has more guts than I figured, taking _you_ on." She ignored Jenn's second 'uh!' of indignancy in favor of her question. "Tongues or no tongues?"

" _Lauren!_ "

"What?! It's a fair question!" Jenn buried half of her face in one slim hand, a few strands of hair falling across the back.

"I can't _believe_ I'm talking to you about this," she grumbled.

"Hey! Curious minds want to know! If you asked _me_ for details, I'd give them."

"But I don't, because you get _overly_ graphic."

"No such thing, Jenn love," said Lauren airily. "Now answer the question."

"Do you realize how high-school-kid this is?"

"Jenn, when it comes to you and me, we never left high school."

"Speak for yourself."

"Answer the question."

Jenn was silent for about ten seconds, and then she sighed. "No."

"What?!"

"That's none of your business," Jenn repeated.

"Okay, that means tongues. You're moving up in the world, girl!"

"What, the whore world?" muttered Jenn. There was a moment's silence.

"Okay, first off, _ouch_ ," said Lauren. "Second, tongue-kissing a guy you're dating does _not_ make you a whore."

"I know," said Jenn apologetically, knowing that it had been a low shot. "But we're not dating!"

" _Still_?" Lauren sounded incredulous. "Geez. Get off your butt!"

" _Lauren_ …" said Jenn in exasperation.

"Sorry, sorry…"

"We haven't even talked about it," admitted Jenn after a second in a low tone.

"What are you doing talking to me, then?" Lauren demanded. "Go talk to the man! Get this out in the open and start dating!"

"Lauren, there's no _way_ it's going to be that easy," said Jenn, rolling her eyes at her window. Lauren sighed, and Jenn heard a slight _click, click_ that told her that her friend was biting her fingernails, a bad habit of hers.

Finally, Lauren said, "Out of curiosity, was he a good kisser?"

"Yeah," admitted Jenn. "I mean, it was my first."

"Jenn, honey, you might be experiencing memory problems, but you've kissed one or two guys before."

"Oh, I know," said Jenn, "but none of them were like this."

"Ooh," said Lauren. "Fireworks?"

"Fireworks are something for happy, carefree couples that don't have to deal with wealthy fathers on a rampage," said Jenn dryly. "No, it was… intense. Heated. Really, really strong."

"Wow. One of those, hmm?"

"Yeah, 'one of those', whatever that means." Jenn sighed, feeling her cheeks heat up. "I can't talk about this right now. It's embarrassing."

"It shouldn't be," Lauren pointed out.

"But it is. How are the kids?"

"Excited about tonight," Lauren said, and Jenn could hear the smirk in her voice. "You should see some of the costumes these little punks have cooked up. Little Holly is going as a pumpkin, and she's easily the cutest of them all."

"Isn't it her birthday today?" asked Jenn, contemplating the youngest of the Malton family, an adorable brunette small for her age and born deaf.

"Yes, seven years old on Halloween."

"Sign Happy Birthday for me—give her our secret sign as well. I'll bring a present when I come to visit… whenever that is.

"I knew she'd be a trouble as soon as she was born, I told everyone we should throw her in the river, but no one listened to me!" Jenn chuckled, amused and relieved at the change of subject.

"So what's Teddy going as?" she asked, naming the very active nine-year old boy, whose name was really Caleb but had received his nickname as a toddler, when he ran around hugging everyone like there was no tomorrow. Several people had compared him to an overlarge teddy bear, and the name stuck.

"I wanted him to go as a bear, but, alas," sighed Lauren dryly. "No luck. He's going to be a zombie. His costume's really gross, with dirt and oozing wounds and stuff. Oh, you're not going to believe what Max is going to be."

"What?" asked Jenn, wincing slightly and ready for anything from the thirteen-year-old who hadn't yet outgrown trick-or-treating, apparently. She wouldn't have stopped if not forced—walking around all night and talking to strangers for the only time you were allowed all year, getting sick on way too many caramel or candy apples, and coming away with huge pillowcases full of candy was awesome.

"A child possessed by a demon."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I know. Someone made the mistake of showing the boy _The Exorcist_ , and after sleeping in the twins's room for about a week, too scared to even set _foot_ in his own at night, he got the idea. You should see his possession act. It's kind of freaky—did you know he can fall down without getting hurt?"

"It doesn't surprise me," said Jenn dryly. There was a long silence.

"Jenn."

"What?"

"Go talk to Wayne. I swear I'll tell you all you want to know about how this Halloween went— _later_."

"I don't know if I can."

"Well, for Heaven's sake—why not?!"

"Because I think he's asleep."

"What?! What time is it over there?"

"Um… about one in the afternoon."

"Whoo. Sounds like someone had a late night. You wouldn't have had anything to do with that, would you, sweets?"

" _No_ ," sighed Jenn. Lauren was back to the innuendos—it had to have happened sooner or later.

"Maybe he's nocturnal."

"Maybe. I see him around here in daytime too much for that, though."

"Just _go._ "

"Fine!" said Jenn, and she hung up.

* * *

Jenn was not quite surprised when she found that Bruce had awoken in the time she'd spent on the phone. She found him in the garage, dark gray pullover rolled up to the elbows as he washed his Lamborghini Diablo, and she leaned against her nearby truck, an amused look on her face.

"What?" he asked, looking up and catching her gaze.

"Um… nothing," she said, her smile betraying her as she crossed her arms over her black leather jacket and tried to look nonchalant but failed.

"What's so funny?"

"It's not funny, per se… it's just odd to see you washing your own cars." He gave her a look, and she grinned all the more. "It's just… you're definitely rich enough to afford someone to do it for you, so why do you spend your time working on it?"

"Maybe I don't trust anyone with it," he suggested. She grinned again and shook her head. "Are you implying that I'm not capable of washing my own cars?" he asked, standing up straight and dropping the sponge he was using into the bucket. The sight of him with fluffy white suds on his arms to the elbow proved too much for her, and she literally doubled over in laughter that was silent but for her gasps for air. He just watched, a slightly amused smile on his face, till she recovered.

"No," she finally said. "I think you're perfectly capable. But it's kind of chilly, isn't it? And how many times have you done this before?"

"Enough to know what I'm doing," he said, narrowing his eyes at her. "I think you think I'm being foolish."

"What if I do?"

"Then I'm telling you to get over here so I can show you that not only do I know how to wash a car like this, I can also teach a half-wit to do it." She stared at him, mouth slightly gaping. "Well?"

"You just called me a half-wit!" she finally said. He let out a bark of laughter.

"I wouldn't have resorted to it if you hadn't made yourself such an open target," he returned with a smirk. She just stared at him, a smile on her lips, shaking her head. "Come over here," he said, fishing a soapy sponge from the bucket, "before I throw this at you."

"No! Don't!" she said hurriedly, not feeling like getting doused with wet water on October 31st. "I'm coming." She slipped off her jacket and folded it over her truck bed, rolling up the sleeves of the black long-sleeved top beneath to her elbow, and then cautiously walked over to Bruce.

"Take this," he said, slapping the wet sponge in her hand. She almost dropped it.

"Geez!"

"What? What's wrong?" he asked, looking at her as if he expected to see a ghost.

"It's _cold_!" He laughed at that.

"Sorry. I'd gotten used to it," he said, but she got the feeling that he was extremely amused and not being completely honest.

" _Sure_ ," she said sardonically. "So, what's the difference between washing this car and washing, say, my truck?"

"Want the truth?" he asked, taking her shoulders and turning her around so she was facing the car. She shrugged lightly.

"Yeah."

"There is none." He spoke close to her ear as he'd done the night before, making her shiver slightly. She paused, and then actually comprehended the words and laughed.

"You're kidding."

"Nope." She heard him step away and tried to suppress the disappointment she felt, turning to see him grabbing a hose nozzle and start rinsing off the car. "Same paint on both. Different workings, but the skin's basically the same."

"It's that simple?"

"Well, I told you I could teach you," he said, sounding too smug for his own good as he returned his attention to the car. She just shook her head, chuckling slightly. "That is, assuming you _do_ know how to wash your truck."

For ages afterwards, she wouldn't know why she did what she did, but it just seemed appropriate for the situation. She looked down at the soaked sponge in her hand and flung her hand towards him, keeping her hold on it and squeezing it so that the water instead was flung all over him.

His head jerked up, as if he wasn't quite sure she'd just done that, and she just let her guilty grin answer him. She just had time to see the broad smile that came over his face before he retaliated by squirting a jet of water at her with the hose, and she shrieked and dove to the side, still not managing to avoid the episodic stream of water completely—most of it landed on her head.

After that, it was _on_. Ignoring the fact that this was insane and they were most likely going to get sick, fighting with streams of cold water in late October, they continued willfully. Jenn managed to get one up early on by darting in and stealing the bucket, but when Bruce came back with the hose she regretted it. She was just thankful that she was decent at dodging the streams of water he shot at her, though at one point he managed to soak her jeans entirely with one solid jet. She retaliated by throwing her sponge at him, and it hit him in the head, the sight of which was completely worth having cold, drenched pants in her opinion.

After that, she'd lost her prime weapon, but she still had the bucket of soapy water. Moving quickly, she scooped it up from where she'd left it hiding behind one of the cars and ran towards where she knew Bruce was hiding, crouched behind a dark red Hummer.

Chaos reigned for a few seconds when she reached him, as she dumped the foamy water over his head and he sprayed her down completely with the hose. She gave a yelp at the sudden cold, but her mind soon turned to more important things—namely, that she was completely out of ammo and he had an unlimited cache of water at his disposal.

She did the smartest thing she could think of—dropped the bucket and ran. Bruce wasn't about to let her get away that easily, though, so dropping the hose as it would hinder him, he gave chase. He'd just managed to catch her and grab her around the waist when she slipped on one of the many puddles of water around after their impromptu water fight and lost her footing, and as he was holding on to her and slipping as well, he followed suit.

Fortunately for Jenn, realizing in the second or so before they hit the ground that he would most likely crush her if he landed on top, he managed to twist around, his back hitting the ground with a bone-rattling force. A millisecond later, Jenn landed on top of him—her upper half, at least—the top of her head just under his chin.

For a second, they just lay there and dealt with their uncooperative diaphragms. After their breathing started up again, though, Jenn started to shiver as she realized how uncomfortable soaking wet clothes in near-winter could really be.

"It's _cold_ ," she said through chattering teeth, putting her hands together and almost unconsciously burrowing into the nearest source of warmth—Bruce, whose body heat she could feel easily through the cold, wet clothes. He smirked slightly, lifting a hand and rubbing it up and down the black, waterlogged cloth clinging to her back in a warming gesture.

"You started it," he retaliated, lifting his head slightly so he could see her. She tilted her face towards him, looking up at him almost guiltily as he brought his other arm up and rested it beneath his head.

"Brute," she muttered, but there was no actual venom to her tone. There was a brief silence, and then she pulled in a slow breath. "We're going to get sick if we don't go in."

"Yep. Probably." She seemed to huddle even deeper into his chest, seeming rather reluctant to go. He didn't mind—she was light, even for a girl.

"You do realize that Alfred's going to think we're insane."

"Probably." There was another pause, during which her shivering reached even more violent levels. Realizing that she was right, he pulled his elbows back, raising himself up slightly. She pulled away from him, sitting back on her ankles, and he got to his feet first, putting out a hand for her. She accepted it, and he lifted her to her feet without any effort.

"Should we make up some story about being attacked by a water monster?" she asked.

"If I thought for a second that it would fool Alfred, I'd say yes. But he seems to know everything, so don't bother. He won't ask questions."

"Okay." Feeling slightly foolish but ridiculously content, Jenn followed Bruce into the house.

* * *

"You know you don't have to wait up for me, Alfred," Bruce said late that night (or early the next morning), speaking quietly to the older man, who had been dozing in an armchair near the fire when he entered, returning from the nightly excursion.

"I wasn't," said Alfred truthfully in his usual manner. "I happened to fall asleep in front of the fire." Bruce chuckled, glancing around.

"Jenn's asleep?"

"Yes, sir. I checked on her not long ago."

"Good. Don't want her getting sick after today." Bruce sighed, not moving to sit, as he knew he would just be getting up again straightaway. "I need to find out all I can about her father—I have reason to suspect he's involved in a criminal enterprise."

"Tonight, sir?"

"No—not tonight. I'm completely beat," Bruce admitted, sweeping a hand over his forehead. "I think I'll turn in and get to work on it tomorrow. You should get to bed, too—it's late."

"Three in the morning, sir."

"Yeah. Like I said, late." Bruce yawned. "Good night, Alfred."

"Good night, sir."

Alfred observed his charge as the young man left the room, and then shut his eyes, tipping his head back to rest on the cushioned armchair. He'd been feeling just a bit under the weather lately—an oncoming cold, he figured. Nothing to worry about. He was honestly more intrigued by what was happening between Miss Redgrove and Master Bruce.

He was the eyes and ears of the household, something that Bruce depended on. However, when there weren't high-ranking glitterati to eavesdrop on, he made it his business to tune in on his employer. He'd known Master Bruce since he was born, and was probably the person who understood him most in the world. Now, he knew that Bruce was quickly figuring out where Jenn stood (or should stand) in his life, hindered only by his duties as Batman and his own doubts about himself.

Miss Redgrove was slightly more difficult to interpret—even though she wasn't as much as a puzzle in her emotions as Master Bruce, Alfred hadn't known her for nearly as long. Still, he believed that she was confused by but accepting of the turn in her relationship with Bruce.

He wasn't going to deny that he enjoyed watching the two. Bruce had long needed someone other than his old butler in his life. Alfred had sustained hope with Rachel Dawes, but it soon became clear that the two were best suited to be friends.

He liked Jenn. She was spirited and lighthearted, but had a firm grasp on the city's desperate situation and was no stranger to crime, something that Bruce badly needed. Sometimes, Alfred was apprehensive that the darkness that without question lurked within Bruce would continue to cloak him until nothing else mattered. Alfred was aware that as Bruce's almost sole friend, he kept the darkness at bay, but it still was unhealthy. He needed light.

Alfred opened his eyes and stood up, walking from the room. He would see how this interesting act played out, but for their own sakes he hoped they got a move on.

* * *

Bruce ascended the stairs, aware of his new bruises but for the most part ignoring the pain. It was minor, and he was used to it by now.

At the top of the stairwell, he paused, glancing down to his left—Jenn's room was the first guestroom on the hallway. He paused, wondering if he should go check on her—rationality dictated a firm no, saying that he should get some sleep, but his feet were listening to that voice in his head that whispered that he should see her again once before retiring and he slowly walked down the hall.

He reached for the doorknob and turned it slowly, aware that it was unlocked and that this could be an unintelligent thing to do, but nonetheless pushed the door open.

He figured that the mop of dark hair at the top of the bed was her. He felt a small smile come over his face as he realized she was in a self-created cocoon, burrowing into her covers for warmth, moonlight coming in through the uncurtained window and illuminating the bed. As he watched, she seemed to become aware that the atmosphere had changed and moved, rolling over to face him and elbowing the covers down somewhat.

Her eyes remained closed; she hadn't awoken. He stared, trying in vain to force his feelings into their individual partitions, as he'd always been able to do… except for once. He didn't kid himself; he'd felt this once before with one other person—Rachel Dawes, though this time it was even worse.

Bruce was anything but an idiot. He'd known what he was risking the day he'd invited Jenn to stay, and now it seemed that that looming danger had become a reality. He'd never been the mushy type, but he figured that he could honestly say that those moments of contact with her, physical, verbal—even thinking about her—made him feel happier than he'd been in a long while, were the bright spots of his days.

Contemplating this, he glanced down at the floor, studying the dark wood for a long time before he finally closed the door and headed down the hall to his own room for some rest.

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Master Bruce, you need to get up."

Bruce tried to ignore Alfred's insistent voice, in favor of huddling deeper into his bed and securing the covers over his tousled head. It was an ungodly hour by anyone's estimation—what was it, eight, nine AM? He'd gotten five or six hours of sleep and now his body felt like a giant bruise. This wasn't funny.

"Go 'way," he grumbled incomprehensively. "What's the matter with you?"

"Master Bruce, I apologize but there's been a call."

" _Madman_ ," Bruce muttered into his pillow before Alfred's words finally caught up with him. "What kind of call?" he demanded, still not emerging from his burrow.

"It sounds serious." Finally, Bruce pulled the covers from his head. "They want you to get back to them as soon as possible."

Well, since he was already up…

He climbed out of bed and immediately fell to the floor in the routine two-per-second pushups. Urgent though the call may be, no one disrupted the morning routine. He knew how easy it was to let things go. He ignored the protests of his bruised flesh— _that_ was normal as well. "Is Jenn awake?" he asked, not letting the question interfere with the workout.

"She's gone to church, sir."

Bruce was surprised, but kept moving. "Isn't that kind of dangerous? And is it _possible_ to find an incorrupt church in this city?"

"That's what I asked, sir," said Alfred, smiling a bit. "She smiled and responded that it's _always_ possible to find a good church, if one knows where to look."

Bruce said nothing more on the subject, just hoped Jenn knew what she was doing. He finished up and got fully dressed before heading out to call Lucius Fox and see what in hell was going on.

A few minutes later, he was wishing he hadn't.

* * *

Jenn was going to go to hell.

Okay, that was a major exaggeration. Still, she couldn't help feeling like an impatient preteen again during church—unable to concentrate on the sermon for more than two minutes at a time, staring off inattentively during hymns, and other displays of distraction. Usually she was much more attentive than this.

She knew that she'd better get this stuff sorted out soon, and _very_ soon—though during church wasn't a particularly opportune time. But whenever she tried to concentrate what she was going on around her, her mind would jump back to the kisses—as well as their decidedly intimate position after the water fight a few days ago. _One_ of those, at least, had been an accident, but she really didn't see how that fact helped. It didn't change the fact that she kept getting flashes, as if she were still feeling the sensations—his tongue brushing against hers, the feel of his mouth, the memory of his long, warm, hard body stretched out underneath her-

_Oh, sod it all._

She liked him, more than she'd thought possible. _Might as well get it out in the open, Jenn girl._ She couldn't quit thinking about him, as she was currently proving—her hours lying awake over the past few nights trying to blank her mind and get to sleep attested to the new fixation as well.

Well, maybe it wasn't _new…_ earlier she'd just had to put it on hold so as not to satisfy her father. Now, though, with Bruce's frequent close proximity, it refused to be quelled. _Stupid hormones—great time to go crazy._

She shook her head distractedly, tossing her hair to the side and attracting the curious stare of an older woman down the pew. Jenn gave her a small, apologetic smile and focused brown eyes once more on the pastor—a young man named Thomas Calvin, just out of seminary—but it didn't take long for her attention to waver again.

In some points of view, her attending church as usual might be construed as dangerous—what with her father looking for her and all. But she trusted these people. She didn't know them extremely well, as she'd been cruising around the churches in Gotham City in order to find one that suited her views before settling on this one, but they were good people. You didn't attend church in Gotham City unless you were serious about your religion, and this denomination didn't have the tendency to produce hypocrites. She'd be all right, and these people would leave her business to her.

Bruce crossed her mind again. She wondered with a half-smile if he was still sleeping—probably so. He was a night owl, always up later than she was. She would be, too, to be completely honest, but she had things that needed to be taken care of in the morning—like calls to England, which was a good many hours ahead in the time zone.

On that note, she sighed, unsure of what she was going to tell Lauren—the Englishwoman was sure to call before too much time passed. Was she just going to tell the truth—that she'd been avoiding the question completely? She grimaced—no. She'd get _way_ too much of an earful. Maybe she could just evade the question—but that was next to impossible.

"…let us pray," Pastor Calvin said, concluding up his sermon, and she blinked before ducking her head and shutting her eyes. The time had passed faster than she'd thought possible, and she still had only a small clue of what the sermon had been about. That wasn't good. She needed to get her act together, and she needed to do it soon.

After the benediction, she paused to shake Pastor Calvin's hand, making herself focus enough to give him a small smile and focus. He smiled almost shyly at her—he was the bookish type, not exactly gregarious but not antisocial, either.

"How are you, Jenn?" he inquired politely.

"I'm doing well," she said.

"Will you be here next Sunday?"

"Hopefully," she responded with a small laugh. "Just making it through each week as it comes. For now, I'm heading home."

"Goodbye," he bade her as she headed down the steps.

"Bye," she said in return, slightly preoccupied by the fact that she'd called Bruce's house her home—not too extraordinary in itself, but for the fact that she'd actually _meant_ it. She shook her head slightly, trying not to think on it as she climbed into her truck and headed back to the manor.

* * *

Bruce ran a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth in a combination of disquiet and anger. Lucius Fox stood beside him, hands in his pockets and looking at the yellow crime scene tape with grim melancholy.

"Yeah," Lucius said, "the other two are pretty much like it. All three high-paid Wayne Enterprises executives, all killed pretty messily. Halloween night, too—I wouldn't want to be in their shoes right now."

"Do the police have a list of suspects?" Bruce asked, more for something to say than anything else.

"Everyone has enemies, Bruce," Lucius sighed. "The police don't hold out much hope, though. They haven't been able to find much evidence. No discarded weapons, no fingerprints, nothing relevant."

"What types of weapons were used?"

"Guns and knives seem to be the most popular, though in one case they're pretty sure that he was strangled."

"Which one?"

"Johnson."

"Oh." Bruce gritted his teeth as Lucius stepped aside to speak to someone who'd just approached. Not only were these people part of his company, but they were all three of them _good_ people that he himself had appointed. Murder was not a thing to be taken lightly.

"Mr. Wayne," Lucius said, approaching. Bruce turned to see him holding out a newspaper article. "The person who wrote this apparently has a theory. Burgess thought that you'd find it interesting."

Bruce sighed, not exactly in the mood to read some half-witted notions a coffee-hyped newspaper reporter entertained, but he trusted Lucius and took the newsprint.

BLACK WIDOW STRIKES AGAIN

His brow furrowed upon reading the eye-catching headline. The article had been written a week or so ago, when Judge Adair had been found dead in his bed, throat slashed. The journalist apparently thought a woman, a new crime lord, was behind all of this—it would explain a few things, but what would be her motive? All the people murdered so far were men, and all of them were on the wealthy side of the scale. A thought struck him, and he turned.

"Lucius," he said, "do you know what happened to the money of these people after they died?"

"You mean the execs?"

"Yeah, them, and the people before them—Marcus Breach, Senator Hayes, Henry Louis, Judge Adair—what happened to their money?"

"I could find out for you."

"Yeah—please," Bruce said, green eyes scanning the article again. "Oh, if you could, find their bank records of financial dealings up to three months before the murders—any large transactions, or even a constant contribution to someone or something."

"You think it's relevant?" inquired Lucius, lifting one eyebrow as he looked at his boss and friend.

"I wouldn't be asking for them if I didn't have my suspicions, would I?" Bruce inquired with no trace of hostility, a bit of a grim smile pulling at his mouth.

"Then I'll get them for you—but you're wanted at the Travers crime scene; you should probably make an appearance at all three and just look them over before heading home."

"If I head home at all," Bruce sighed, scratching absently at the bridge of his nose with an index finger before focusing on the gruesome artist's rendition of a tremendous black widow spider, spinning a web to ensnare rich and unsuspecting men.

* * *

The general sense of unease was what greeted Jenn when she reached the mansion. Things weren't right, and she looked around, pulling off her heels and setting them on the steps to take up to her room later, next time she went upstairs. She felt much more comfortable barefooted—her childhood had seen most of spring and fall and all of summer running around with no shoes, and she remembered how much of a hell Gotham had been when she discovered that her father was going to make her wear shoes as much as possible. She still had managed to disobey as much as possible, running around in bare feet partially for her own comfort, partially to annoy him.

"Alfred?" she called out, looking around and pulling her dark hair out of its snood—she'd tucked it into the delicate, lacy black web that morning because it had been misbehaving, but it should be tamed now from being contained up for a while.

There was no response and so she headed for the kitchen, where sure enough she found Alfred, one ear to the phone, which accounted to his lack of response. She quieted her movements immediately, slipping over to the table and sitting down.

"Yes, Master Bruce—I understand," Alfred said into the phone. "No… yes, she just walked in, as a matter of fact." Jenn shrank further into her seat, trying not to feel ridiculously pleased that Bruce had asked about her, and Alfred sent her a glance that might have been deadpan but for the twinkling in his eyes as he nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll see you then. Goodbye." He then hung up. "Good morning, Miss Redgrove."

"Morning, Alfred—well, almost afternoon, anyway," Jenn said. "Where's Bruce? Isn't he usually in bed around this time?"

"Company disaster," Alfred responded. "Three of his executives were murdered last night."

"Oh, no," said Jenn, an honestly upset look on her face. "That's horrible."

"Yes, and now he's out trying to sort through the various paperwork. He probably won't be home until late." Alfred looked acutely at her. "Your friend—Miss Malton, am I correct?" She nodded, not quite surprised that he'd heard from Lauren, and he continued. "She's been calling the house every half-hour since you left this morning. She says that it's an emergency."

Jenn bit her lip as she stood, unsure of what would make Lauren call so much. Lauren sometimes exaggerated, but she wouldn't say 'emergency' unless it was really an emergency. Looking over at Alfred, who seemed tired, she crossed the kitchen and gave the elderly butler a hug, knowing that it wasn't what was really expected but not particularly caring. "Thanks for putting up with me, Alfred."

"It's my pleasure, Miss Redgrove," he responded after a moment, clearly taken aback, but he gently rested a hand on her shoulder to show that he understood. After a moment, she pulled away to go upstairs—picking up her shoes on the way—and make the call.

The phone in her room, she discovered, was connected to the second of three lines—the first was for business, the second was private, and the third was what seemed to be a running joke between Bruce and Alfred—the 'hold' line, the number of which was given to people who would be put on hold till they gave up and decided to stop tormenting Bruce.

Picking up the set, she dialed in the number, pressing the phone to her ear and sitting on the floor, resting her elbow on the low table upon which the phone rested. As it rang, she observed her room.

As all guest rooms in Wayne Manor could be expected to be, it was very, very nice. Going with the theme throughout the rest of the house, it had thick red carpet, and she suspected that the furniture—a four-poster bed, a wardrobe, a desk, an armchair and a low table that sat in front of it—was all mahogany. The window made up for being the only one in the room by extending from floor almost to the ceiling, the bottom half actually a pair of doors that led out to a balcony, from which a trellis extended. She wasn't out there much because of the cold weather, but she supposed it would be an excellent spot to relax during the rest of the seasons.

On the fifth ring, Lauren picked up. Jenn could immediately tell by her friend's tone of voice—the _I'm-trying-not-to-cry_ tone—that the word 'emergency' hadn't been lightly used.

"Hello?"

"Lauren?" Jenn's brow creased. "Lauren, what's wrong?"

"Jenn, is that you?" came the trembling voice. At the sound of her friend in obvious distress, Jenn immediately swept into comforting mode.

"Sweetie, what happened?"

"Jenn, it's…" Lauren choked, and Jenn bit her lip, waiting tensely for whatever Lauren had to say. "It's Max."

"What about him?" Jenn asked warily, getting struck with a horrible suspicion but refusing to believe anything until Lauren herself had said it.

"Jenn, he—he didn't come home last night." Jenn said nothing, the shock only slightly lessened by the fact that her notion had been dead-on, and Lauren sniffed. "We've been out looking for him for hours—you know, we thought he spent the night with one of his friends, because he said he might… but he's not with any of them."

"Have you called the police?"

"There's not much use in it. They won't start looking until he's been missing for forty-eight hours… at this point, it's been about twenty."

Jenn shut her eyes for a full minute, listening as Lauren conversed for a moment with someone back in England—she couldn't hear much, but figured it had something to do with Max. Finally, she drove her fist into the ground. " _Shit!_ " The mild carpet burn was worth releasing her pent-up anger.

"Wow, Jenn, don't hold back." Some of Lauren's usual dryness had resurfaced, proving that whatever happened, she was the same person.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Jenn, ignoring her friend's sarcasm. Lauren sighed.

"Nothing that I can think of, unless the Dick-tator recently died and left you a buttload of money with which to start a private investigation."

"Unfortunately, no," said Jenn wryly. "I'm sorry, Lauren."

"I know," said the Englishwoman softly. There was silence, and then Lauren sighed. "Well, I just wanted to let you know. We're going out again to look some more, so I've got to go."

"Yeah," said Jenn quietly. "Good luck. I'll be praying for you, and in the meantime I'll see what I can come up with. Give Hannah a hug for me, yeah?"

"Sure. Goodbye."

"Bye." Jenn heard a click on the other end, and sighed, returning the phone to the handset. Pushing herself up onto her bare feet, she crossed the room to her wardrobe, opening it to try and find something to change into from her airy, elegant church dress. She settled on her favorite pair of jeans—a worn, faded pair that was rather too long for her, the flared edges falling to the beginnings of her toes—and a two-layer pink and white graphic logo tee—she wasn't much for pink, but in this case, trying to find something comfortable, she decided it would be forgivable.

Once changed, she headed downstairs, still barefooted, to find Alfred and bring him up to date.

* * *

The day was getting worse and worse.

The first crime scene had by far been the least gruesome, as he'd found after visiting the areas where Tom Johnson and Gary Travers had been killed. The rest were very bloody and very grisly, sending several people out back to relieve their stomachs of previous meals.

Now, he was in his office at Wayne Tower, filling out some necessary paperwork that dealt with insurance for the families of the men—and this was only the beginning, he was certain. He took a moment from the scratching of his pen, resting his head in the palm of his hand and trying not to let his tiredness catch up to him.

"Mr. Wayne," came Jessica's voice over the intercom, shaking him from the weariness, "there's someone that's been calling for you every five minutes for the past hour; she's very insistent—whenever we put her on hold, she just hangs up and calls back again." Bruce looked at the phone with a small smile pulling at his mouth.

"Did this woman happen to drop a name?" he said in response.

"She said her name was Jennifer, and it was urgent."

It was probably Jenn. By some unspoken accord, it seemed that they'd decided that in what cases that might turn up in which she had to deal with the rest of Gotham City, she'd go by her given name. Of course, it might be some extremely insistent reporter named Jennifer, but the chances of that weren't very high. "Okay, Jessica," he said, picking up the receiver, "put her on the line."

There were a few seconds of silence, and then Jenn's voice reached him. "Bruce?"

"Jenn, what's wrong?"

"Bruce—oh, thank God it's you. It's Alfred." Her voice had the quality of someone who was forcing themselves to remain calm, and he immediately tensed.

"What about Alfred?"

"Something's wrong with him—I was coming downstairs and he was on the floor, unconscious." Upon hearing this, Bruce bolted upwards, putting her on speaker phone and moving around the office to gather up various crucial documents and stuff them in a briefcase. Work could wait.

"Where are you?"

"Outside the hospital—I took your cell phone off the counter; you left it this morning. They won't let me use it inside, they…" She cut herself off, sniffed, and then resumed, "They won't even let me see him. Whenever I ask what's wrong, they just say that they're working on it."

"Okay," Bruce said, checking his watch and shutting the case. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Just hold on."

"Bruce… please, hurry." She sounded tired, scared, and upset.

"I'm coming," he responded, and disconnected.

**Chapter Sixteen**

Bruce made it to the hospital in record time. He tried to relieve his tension by gripping the steering wheel extra hard, but it didn't make him feel any better and he was pretty sure he was crushing it, so he stopped after a while.

When he entered the first lobby of the hospital, he spotted a familiar dark head amid the others moving around, and she turned to see him a split second later, not hesitating to launch herself across the room and anchor herself to him. He wrapped his arms around her, brushing a kiss over her head, knowing that this wasn't the best place to do this. He didn't care. After a few more seconds of holding on to him, Jenn pulled back, and he ignored how empty his arms felt now.

"Thank God you're here," she said sincerely.

"Any news?"

"No—they won't let me see him, and I haven't seen a doctor or nurse that have been able to give me any information. I thought telling them I was his niece would help, but—"

"Niece?" he said, lifting an eyebrow.

"Well…" she said, shrugging. "Great-niece. You know how they are about people who aren't family members, so I just… went with it."

"What happened?"

"I just… I don't know," she said despondently, looking at a point somewhere to the left of his right shoulder. "I came downstairs and went in the kitchen, and he was there, just sprawled out on the tile, not moving… for a minute, I thought he was dead." She buried herself in his embrace again, hugging him tightly, and he raised no objection.

"Um… Miss Pennyworth?" Jenn resisted the urge to glare at the man who'd interrupted them as the thought came to her that he must have news, and she pulled rather reluctantly from Bruce's grasp to turn and see a young, wiry man in a sterile-white doctor's coat. She glanced up at Bruce, who was regarding the doctor in somewhat apprehensive curiosity, and then nodded.

"Yes?" she asked, moving a step away from Bruce so that she should concentrate—smelling that good _had_ to be illegal; now was _not_ the time for hormones to go crazy.

"I'm Doctor Shane Whittle. We've managed to stabilize your uncle—he _should_ be out of danger for now, but he's still unconscious and we're not quite sure when he'll wake up."

" _Should_ be?" demanded Jenn.

"What was wrong with him?" Bruce wanted to know. Doctor Whittle looked at Bruce with momentary apprehension, as the latter sounded rather forceful in his worry for his butler and was a good deal larger than the doctor, but that worry disappeared almost immediately as recognition sparked in his eyes.

After staring at Bruce for a moment, he seemed to realize that he was gawking at the billionaire and immediately snapped out of it. "Oh! Um…" He diverted his attention to the clipboard he was holding, a hint of crimson staining his cheeks. "Samples of his blood revealed traces of toxin that we've managed to dilute somewhat, but lack of a proper antitoxin means that his immune system will have to keep the rest of the poison at bay—at least, until we find an antidote."

"Poison?" asked Jenn softly and disbelievingly, glancing up at Bruce. Whittle looked at them both and then nodded.

"What do you mean—lack of a proper antitoxin?" asked Bruce after a quick glance down at Jenn. "What kind of poison was it?" Whittle seemed slightly taken-aback.

"That's… that's sort of the thing," he said, ducking his head to study the clipboard again. "We can't completely identify it. It seems to be a hybrid of a well-known narcotic and a more lethal and unidentified chemical toxin—we've sent the samples to a lab for testing, which will hopefully yield results."

"Which lab?" Bruce wanted to know. Whittle watched him for a moment and then searched his clipboard again.

"Who would want to poison Alfred?" Jenn asked Bruce quietly, confusion mingled with doubt in her eyes. Bruce stared ahead, lost in the thought her question provoked, until Whittle came up with the name of the lab and gave it over, leading Bruce to imprint it in his memory.

"Can we see him now?" Bruce asked.

"You should be able to," said Whittle with a nod, "but he's still unconscious."

"That doesn't matter," Jenn said. Whittle glanced at her again, and after a moment, nodded.

"Follow me, then, please."

He led them to a room on the fifth floor, and their small group was oddly silent. Bruce was calculating ways in which to fund the lab to speed their progress, Jenn was biting her lip and wondering if the day could get worse—though she didn't dare utter such a thought out loud, for fear of jinxing it—and Whittle seemed rather awed in the presence of Bruce Wayne.

After showing them to a room in which Alfred rested unconscious, Whittle left them, and Jenn sank into a chair next to the bed, burying her head in her hands and running her fingers through her hair. Bruce came in a bit from the doorway and shut the door behind him, stepping to the side and crossing his arms as he stared at the bed.

Jenn spoke first, lifting her head and looking at Alfred's peaceful face, repeating her question from earlier. "Who would want to poison Alfred?" she asked softly, disbelief that anyone would want to harm the man heavy in her tone.

Bruce paused, working his jaw, and then deliberately repeated Lucius Fox's words from earlier. "Everyone has enemies."

"But _Alfred_?" Jenn said in skepticism. Bruce mulled over this.

"What if—" he began, and then lifted a hand to rub at the lower half of his face. "We have to keep all possibilities open. There's the chance that someone attacked him to get to us."

"To get to _you_ ," Jenn corrected. "They might have attacked him to get to _you._ They don't know that I'm here." Bruce shifted his gaze to her, and she stopped, considering his lack of denial at her statement for a moment. She shook her head slightly. "You think—"

"We have to keep all possibilities open," Bruce repeated. She buried her head in her hands again, and he made himself stay where he was. "Your father is smarter than you might think, and he has resources. He's rich. And right now, if he's done this, you're doing exactly what he wants by coming out into the open."

"To _hell_ with my father," she said abruptly, looking up again. "I'm here, am I not? No doubt someone's recognized me by now, what with him bribing the news stations to keep parading my 'kidnapping' around and all. I don't _care._ I _will_ tell you something, though—if this is him messing around with Alfred, I _swear_ I'm going to go down to his house and get into an all-out _brawl_ with him, just for the pleasure of kicking his—"

"I think I get the picture," Bruce said, a bit of levity in his green eyes, a lightness that disappeared when his gaze fell on Alfred again. "And I'll be right there beside you, if your father had anything to do with this. However, we can't jump to conclusions. There are plenty of people out there that aren't too fond of me, and anyone can find out that Alfred's obviously the way to get to me." She glanced at him.

"Anyone particular in mind?" she asked. He gave a mirthless laugh.

"Too many to name." She winced. "Probably not your average spurned Gotham glitterati, though. A new poison… whoever's doing this is creative."

"Yeah, that's another thing—how did they get the poison in him?" Bruce shrugged.

"There are any number of ways—food, fumes, possibly a forced injection before you came…"

"Whittle didn't mention any odd marks on the body—he might have just been distracted, though." Jenn reached forward and took Alfred's wrist, his left—the right had an I.V. in mid-arm. "There aren't any puncture wounds," she noted. "And the I.V. has probably destroyed any marks that a needle might have made in his right arm. Plus, I was only gone for about ten-fifteen minutes."

"That doesn't rule it out, but it definitely raises some doubts," Bruce said.

"Did Alfred mention not feeling well to you?" Jenn asked, trying to remember if he'd said something likewise to her. "He was looking tired before this happened." Bruce was already shaking his head.

"Alfred wouldn't say a word if he had pneumonia. It's kind of an ongoing fight between us every winter, each trying to get the other to admit that they're sick." At the mental movie that the statement had evoked, Jenn snickered a little bit, but quickly sobered.

"I think that the best thing to do right now would be to try and find an antidote to this," Jenn said. "Afterwards and during we can brainstorm as to who's trying to threaten one of us." She shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe Alfred had a wild youth." Bruce looked disbelieving, but there was a slight sparkle in his eye.

"I doubt it, though the possibility's occurred to me." She gave a slightly sad laugh, and then looked at Alfred again.

"I guess one of us should go get some of his things. It didn't sound like they were going to release him anytime soon." Her eyes brightened. "Can I go?"

Bruce might have consented, but saw the gleam in her eyes and thought better of it. He'd driven his favorite Corvette and didn't much feel like seeing it on the ten o'clock news in a tremendous mangle, especially not with her in the midst of it, and said as much to her.

"You're no fun," she said, sinking into her chair. He smiled slightly.

"When your father dies and if he leaves you enough money to compensate for the car if you crash it, I might let you."

"Not like you need it."

"Not the point. For now, _I'll_ go. You stay here."

"No problem," she said, sobering again. He nodded and after staring at her for a few seconds, left.

* * *

Alfred was awake when he returned, and Jenn obviously couldn't be more relieved. He himself was slightly surprised—most poisons weren't easy to recover from. He nodded at his butler, allowing a smile at the unexpected upturn as the nurse left the room after making the older man comfortable. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Alfred."

"Thank you, sir," Alfred said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Although it might help if I could recall how I got here."

"You don't remember anything?" Jenn asked, slightly surprised. Alfred considered, and then shook his head.

"Not much beyond the point where you left, I'm afraid," he said regretfully.

"So you weren't attacked?" Bruce picked up. Alfred looked a bit surprised.

"Attacked? Of course not, sir."

"It's not like it's not a possibility," said Jenn, winding her slim fingers distractedly through her hair. "Wayne Manor is not impenetrable."

"Unfortunately not," said Bruce, possibly thinking of the year before, when Rā's al Ghūl and a portion of the League of Shadows had slipped in unobtrusively, blending into the partygoers.

"Do you remember feeling unwell beforehand?" Jenn asked. "I mean, I'd noticed that you looked more tired than usual the past week…"

"Well, yes," Alfred admitted, "but it was nothing to worry about."

"Obviously, it was," Bruce said in a calm reproof. "Someone's been getting poison to you. How?"

"I'm afraid I'm as perplexed as you are on that point, sir," sighed Alfred. There was a moment's silence, and then a knock came on the closed door. Three heads turned towards it, and Bruce, the closest to the doorway, shifted and moved to open it cautiously.

"Mr. Wayne." It was Dr. Whittle again. Bruce lifted an eyebrow in silent query, stepping aside to let the doctor enter. "There's some more paperwork that we need Miss Pennyworth to fill out." Alfred glanced at Jenn at this, and she made an expression halfway between a grimace and a grin, shrugging and blushing slightly.

"Can you bring it in here or do I have to do it out there?" she asked, rising from her seat. Whittle studied her and then shrugged.

"I don't see why you can't do it in here. Give me a moment and I'll go get it." He left, shutting the door quietly. Two glances were then trailed on Jenn, who shifted almost guiltily.

"Well, I'm _sorry_ , but they don't let friends have as many liberties as family. I mean, I could be your great-niece—right, Alfred?" Alfred smiled, reaching for her hand.

"I can't think of anyone else I'd prefer."

* * *

Shortly afterward, Alfred made them leave. Neither of them wanted to, but Bruce had Wayne Enterprises business to take care of, and Alfred informed Jenn repeatedly that she'd grow bored with him just sleeping most of the day. He wasn't kidding about the sleeping part. Just before they left the room, Jenn saw him shut his eyes exhaustedly, and she was willing to bet that he wouldn't be opening them again for a while.

"I guess we were annoying him," she said with a shrug when Bruce opened the car door for her, allowing her to slide in. "Thanks." He shut the door with a nod, moving around to climb into the driver's seat.

"Alfred? Nah. He was just tired."

"Yeah, hence the worry."

"I know," Bruce said heavily. "I'm doing what I can right now. We'll fix this."

The rest of the drive was spent in relative silence, until Jenn remembered something and pressed her head back against the seat. "Crap."

Bruce's glance her way showed minor alarm, though she could still read amusement in his eyes at her expletive of choice. "Something wrong?" She pushed her hand against her temple.

"In all this mess with Alfred, I forgot to tell you about Lauren."

"What about her?"

"Last night, her little brother, Max, didn't come home," Jenn said softly. "They've been out looking for him since."

Bruce was silent for a moment, and then he sucked in a breath. "Shit."

"My thoughts exactly," said Jenn, burrowing back into her seat and crossing her arms. "I mean, it could be a normal kidnapping and all, but the Maltons aren't a wealthy family, and anyone with brains could find out that they fostered me—in a manner of speaking—for years."

"You think it's your father?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation. "I think he wants me to show up and try to help. And if Max doesn't turn up soon, I _am_ going."

"Jenn, you can't—"

"I can and _will_ if a kid that's as good as my little brother is in jeopardy because of me," she snapped at him. He didn't look as if it was unexpected, and sighed as he keyed the gate open and drove up towards Wayne Manor. "If that's what it takes to make my dad leave the people I love alone, then I'll do it," she said, her tone softer. "I don't want… anyone else getting hurt."

"I understand," he said quietly, pulling to a stop. There was a moment's silence in which neither of them moved, and then he sighed. "I'll give it some thought. There's got to be something else we can do."

"I doubt it," she said honestly. He glanced at her.

"I've got to go back to the company," he said. "I should be back after dinner." She looked slightly troubled as she unbuckled her seatbelt, so he leaned across and secured her lips with his own for a moment. Judging by the quiet mewling noise that she made, she was surprised, but by no means complaining. When he came away, she was looking considerably less upset. "I don't want you to worry."

"Okay," she said, almost in a trance, and he suppressed a smile as she got out of the car. "I'll see you later."

"Later," he confirmed just before she shut the car door. When he was certain she was on the way to the house, he drove out again.

* * *

Jenn leaned over the sink and spat out her toothpaste, bending her head to rinse her mouth at the faucet. She spat out the water and then rinsed her toothbrush before lifting herself up again, wiping her mouth on her bare arm and then resting both hands on the edge of the counter, leaning forward and surveying her reflection.

Unsatisfied—that was the expression she wore at the moment, and she figured that it was warranted. There was too much going on, and she was near certain that her father was to blame for most of it.

Most, but not all. She still felt guilty for snapping at Bruce that afternoon. At that thought, she lifted her head and blew a strand of hair away from her face, a strand that had escaped the ponytail she'd crafted in order to keep her hair out of the water. She was pretty sure he held no hard feelings, considering the kiss and all, but she wanted to make sure.

On that note… she smiled, lifting her fingers to brush lightly against her mouth. Knowing that her feelings were reciprocated made her unbelievably happy in the midst of all this, but also brought incredible complexity into the picture. Like… what if he _didn't_ like her as much as she liked him? What if this was just a fling? After all, there _was_ his playboy reputation to deal with (though personally, she'd b-sed the theory almost as soon as she'd heard it and met him). The doubt swarmed in and she blocked it out, lifting her hand and pulling the elastic from her hair, using the other hand to fluff it out. Blowing a strand from her eyes, she studied her reflection.

Paler skin than usual around the face—that was ordinary at night—mouth slightly darker than normal—she attributed it to the kiss from earlier—burgundy-streaked brown hair that looked okay due to its brushing a few minutes before she'd washed her face and rushed her teeth, and near amber-toned brown eyes that were currently burning holes in the mirror in their unnatural intensity. She pulled away, glancing around the expansive, luxurious bathroom, before heading to the door and stepping out into her room.

For a moment, she lingered, unsure of whether to go down the hall to Bruce's room and apologize or just let it be. However, the fact that they hadn't spoken since he'd returned an hour earlier, at around nine o'clock, coupled with a desire just to see him and talk to him drove her from her room, walking barefooted down the carpeted hall towards his closed door.

She crossed her arms against the chill—she'd already changed for sleep, wearing a spaghetti-strapped tank—a silky little thing, cream-colored and thinner than usual—and loose, navy-blue cotton pants that brushed at the heels of her bare feet. The mansion was decently warm, but the fact that it was an overcast November night played a factor in the quickening of her pace as she headed for Bruce's door.

His light was still on. She raised a fist, hesitated, and then knocked. There was a pause, and then she heard Bruce moving around, and the door opened and she came face to face with his bare chest.

She'd been right. His chest and abs _were_ as toned as his arms. Thankfully, his bottom half was clothed in what looked to be long black wool sleep pants.

Lifting her eyes quickly, she met his amused gaze and crossed her arms tighter. "H-hi, Bruce… can I come in?"

Although his eyebrow darted up inquisitively, he stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter. She moved into the room—not without a certain sense of foreboding—and turned as he shut the door. "I wanted to say sorry—for snapping at you earlier, I mean. I had no right." She became distracted again by his abs as he moved closer, and flushed, turning her head away quickly.

"You think I'm upset with you?" Bruce questioned, sounding slightly perplexed. She glanced up at him again, not trusting her eyes to move from his face.

"Yes… no… maybe. I don't know. Are you?"

"Of course not. You were—are—just worried about your friend. I think a little snappiness is warranted." He smiled at her, and relieved, she returned the expression.

"Thanks," she said softly. "So, still friends?" She outstretched a hand, and that eyebrow quirked up again.

"Still friends," he confirmed after a moment, taking her hand. His touch was warm, and she felt no inclination to move away, but felt that she had to before she did something she might regret.

"Any news from Alfred?" she requested as she stepped back, turning to look around the room—it was big and luxurious, like the rest in the house. She lifted her rather cold hands to cool her flushed cheeks as she crossed the room, away from the door—she wasn't sure why. She just knew that she wasn't ready to go for the night—she hadn't seen enough of Bruce that day. She knew it was pathetic, but it was how she felt.

Bruce raised no objection, crossing his own arms and following her. "No," he admitted. "I've gotten a sample of the toxin in his blood to our labs, and they're working on it as quickly as they can. I'm sure they'd have called us at the hospital if there was a problem."

"What if someone went after him at the hospital?" she asked, the thought just now occurring to her, and she turned quickly, only to start in surprise at seeing him so close. Recovering quickly, she turned again and sat on the foot of the bed, bouncing once or twice in a childish habit of testing the softness. It was perfect, as she'd expected it to be.

"Um—taken care of," he said, sounding slightly distracted as he moved to sit beside her—and she wasn't complaining, despite the sudden wave of heat that overtook her senses.

"Good," she commented, feeling his body heat easily in their close vicinity and badly wanting to just wrap her arms around him for no particular reason. She crossed her arm as a shiver pushed through her body, not necessarily from chill.

"You cold?" he asked concernedly, lifting a hand and rubbing at her arm. The sensation that immediately ran down her arm was incredible, quickly spreading throughout her entire body, unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

"No," she forced out, "but…" She lifted her gaze to meet his concerned eyes that had disappeared into a dark color neither green nor brown, smiled slightly, and leaned forward and kissed him.

He quickly responded, parting his lips to allow her free reign as he moved his other hand to her thigh. Jenn gave a slight gasp into his mouth at the sensation—it felt as if his hand were burning straight through her leg. She lifted her own arms, winding one around his neck to draw them even closer and running the other hand through his hair.

Even as things progressed, the thought that _had_ been in the back of his mind came rapidly to the front. This was going too far and likely would continue to progress until they did something that possibly, they'd both end up regretting. After all, he was still uncertain. And he was fairly sure that she was in a state of pain and worry right now and might come to lament anything that happened in this period.

It wasn't that he didn't want her—damn, did he want her. But this was crossing a line that he knew both of them weren't quite ready to cross. And so he pulled away. "We can't do this," he said, voice gravelly, forehead still resting against hers and locking stares with her.

Her gaze held no condemnation, only a complex mixture of acknowledgement, accordance, and respect. "I know," she breathed. They remained like this for a second that both seemed to stretch on forever and end too rapidly. She ducked forward one last time to give him one last kiss, and then got up and left.

He waited for an hour, and then checked to make sure she was sleeping and headed to the cave.

**Chapter Seventeen**

Showering had always been a type of therapy for Jenn. Baths, too, but with showers one could just stand there and completely lose track of passing time, oblivious to all but the water running down one's body—baths were relaxing, but you had to be aware, make sure that you didn't fall asleep.

She'd slept badly the night before. She'd gone to sleep faster than usual, true—probably the stress of the past day catching up with her—but she'd woken many times during the night. A few times she'd toyed with the idea of going to see if Bruce was awake, too, but it was only an idea she tossed around in her head, knowing the entire time that she wouldn't act on it. Things had gone too far the night before.

At first, it had just been kissing—that was manageable. But last night, she'd almost done something she would have doubtless regretted. Despite how close they'd become over the past month, she didn't think either of them were ready to face the commitment sex would bring and she could only be grateful that Bruce had put a stop to it before it had gone too far. But clearly, this couldn't continue, and her mind dourly worked to find an answer to the current problem.

By the time her half-hour shower was over, she'd reached a grim resolution. Stepping from the heated bathroom into the colder air of her room after dressing herself in a graphic tee somewhat like the one from the day before—except this one was green and black—and hip-hugging flares, she'd started working on carrying out her plan, not sure whether she was intending on waking Bruce or not.

That decision had been pulled out of her hands, though, when her door was pushed open and the man himself stood in her doorway, looking tired, almost as if he hadn't slept all night. She flushed slightly and sent him a harried glance before continuing to put the clothes she owned in her bags.

"Jenn…" He sounded confused, and she forced herself not to turn around and run to him for comfort—for him or her, she didn't know. "What are you doing?"

She folded her clothes neatly and put them in one of the bags before answering. "Working out some kinks."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes."

" _Why_?" She turned to see him surveying her with a gaze full of utmost bewilderment and a small amount of anger. Feeling the strength leave her legs, she dropped into a sitting position on her bed, next to her bag.

"I just told you, I'm working out some kinks," she said softly, pushing one hand through her hair and trying not to meet his eyes.

"Kinks to _what_?" Less bewilderment, more anger. Obviously this wasn't going to be as easy as she'd hoped—but it would be as difficult as she'd _expected_.

"My life." She swept a hand from one side of the room to the other. "This has been a refuge, Bruce, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm just running away from my problems. I've got to face them, and I'm going to start in England. If my father wants me there, I'm going there, and I'm getting Max back." Her strength renewed by her speech, she got up and headed across the room to the wardrobe, pulling out more clothing. Bruce took a couple of steps into the room.

"Why now?" he wanted to know. She had to step around him this time on her way back, as he made no move to get out of the way, and he turned to watch her.

"Because with yesterday, things just got a _lot_ more complicated." She turned again to go back to the wardrobe, but he was closer now and took her arm, his grip firm and unyielding but not ungentle. She gave an experimental tug to see if she could get away if she tried. Nope.

"You don't have to leave," he said, almost commandingly. She finally raised her eyes to his.

"Yes, I do," she said, pulling again. "I _really_ do."

"You're telling me you don't want to stay?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I asked you first." She sighed, tossing up her one free hand.

"Yes, I want to stay. But I can't. This isn't forever, Bruce, but we do need to separate for a while."

"And you're deciding this for me?" he said, feeling his grip on his temper slide and checking it immediately, releasing her lest his hand unconsciously tighten. He didn't want to hurt her. He wasn't just going to give up, though. Bruce wasn't always fully attuned to good things in his life, but now that there was a danger of losing her, he'd be damned if he let her go without a fight.

"I'm deciding it for _me_ ," she said almost calmly, perching her hands on her hips and tilting her head to look up at him. "I _do_ want to pursue a relationship with you," she admitted, deciding that they might as well have it all out. "But we can't go further until some of the things in my life have been straightened out and I can pay full attention to what's going on between _us._ "

She was right about that, and he knew it, but lying in the back of his mind was an almost buried fear. What if she never came back? People had a habit of doing that when it came to him. "Why do you have to _leave_ to sort these things out?" he asked quietly. "Why can't you stay, and let me help?"

"Because firstly, I have to do these things on my own, and secondly, you being around would just be a distraction to me. No offense."

"But _England?_ "

"I know it seems far, but—"

"I don't see why you have to cross an ocean—"

"Would you just _listen-?_ "

"I don't want you to go so far to—"

The phone ringing cut off their simultaneous voices. They both shot the phone looks of annoyance mingled with relief, and it rang twice more before Jenn shook her head. "It's probably Lauren," she said, going to pick it up, giving Bruce a look that said they'd finish this as soon as the phone call was over. "Hello?"

"Jenn!" Lauren's voice immediately filled her ear, bubbly, excited, and much more like normal Lauren than the last phone call had been.

"What is it; what's the news?" Jenn asked immediately.

"We found Max! At about three o'clock last night, we got some weird phone call that told us that he'd be in a storage container on 11th, and that the door would be unlocked, and we went there and he was lying inside, asleep!"

"Lauren, that's awesome!" said Jenn, and then paused. "You don't know who made the phone call?"

"No, we don't—who cares?! Max is back!" Jenn could understand that Lauren wasn't paying attention to details in her euphoria over her brother being back, but an anonymous phone call? It was dubious to say the least.

"What does Max remember?"

"He says that he split up with his friends to hit one last house, and then someone hit him in the back of the head and he went unconscious," said Lauren, sobering slightly. "Apparently, he spent almost all the time asleep, only waking up once that he can remember and then getting jabbed with a needle. We got him checked out—he's fine."

"Have you taken him to the doctor for a blood test?"

"Yes."

"And he has no idea who did it?"

"No. It was dark in the container."

"What about you? Do you have any theories?"

"Tons, but none of them seem very likely… except one."

"What?"

"The Dick-tator."

"That's what I thought, too," sighed Jenn. She rubbed at her temple, preparing to announce her plans to Lauren, but her friend's next words cut her off.

"If you're thinking of coming out here, forget it. The Dick-tator was paid us a visit shortly after we got Max back—at about five in the morning, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. If I hadn't been so happy with finding Max, I'd have attacked the bloody git. He told us that he was glad we'd found the child—how'd he know, anyway? Exactly—and that he hoped that nothing like this ever happened again. Then he mentioned you and practically ordered us to call if you showed up."

"Sounds like he was threatening you," Jenn said, frowning slightly. "Lauren, I want to come over there."

" _No_. He said he was leaving for Gotham again within the hour, but he might have been lying."

"Gotham?" Jenn asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yeah. You have to stay put. Speaking of which, how's Wayne?"

"He's… fine," Jenn said hurriedly, glancing at Bruce, who had his arms crossed and was waiting with a semblance of patience for the conversation to reach an end. "Look, Lauren, I have to go. I'm going to call you back later, but right now I'm busy."

"Oo, busy doing _what?_ " asked Lauren, her insatiable sense of perverse curiosity resurfacing again now that Max was okay.

"None of your business," said Jenn shortly. "I'll talk to you later."

"Okay, geez," said Lauren. "Uptight much?"

"Good _bye_."

"Ta." Jenn hung up the phone and ran her hands through her hair yet again, turning to face Bruce.

"They found Max, but apparently my dad showed up just afterward, offered a few veiled threats, and then headed back to Gotham."

"And what change does that make in your plans?" he inquired, looking slightly more relaxed.

"I… don't know," she confessed, crossing her arms tightly. "I mean, he _said_ he was going to Gotham, but he might have been lying." Her eyes widened slightly as her mind sought out the possibilities. "He might be waiting there for me now that the coast is supposedly clear. He might have tapped her line and traced it back to here—oh, no, Bruce, what if he finds out I'm here? He might come hurt you—he _can't_ do that—"

Bruce quickly crossed the room and caught hold of her shoulders in a steadying move. "Jenn—Jenn! Calm down a little," he said, interrupting her rant. "I doubt that he tapped the phones—and if he did, then I think you'll find that I'm well-equipped to put up with anything he might send my way. Now," he said, either not noticing or pretending not to observe Jenn's eyes avoiding his, her trying not to react to the close proximity, "I want you to slow down. I want you to promise me you'll stay here for at least one more night before jumping into anything—I mean, it sounds to me like you just came up with this plan this morning."

"Well… yeah," she admitted almost abashedly. Almost.

"Just stay here today and we'll discuss this. If I haven't changed your mind by tomorrow morning, I won't try to hold you back anymore, but I want you to promise me to stay another twenty-four hours."

"O-okay," she said, lifting her eyes to his. "Fine." She sighed and pulled out of his grasp, trying to recollect herself. "It's not like the bags are going to unpack themselves," she murmured.

He stepped back, knowing that he'd won a battle, but the war was yet to come. He didn't mind fighting, though. It might be hard, but he was determined to convince Jenn to stay. Starting-

"I think that I'll go on a walk right now," she said, her back to him as she rummaged for a coat. "Clear my head."

… _not_ right now. _Damnit…_ "Okay," he agreed. "Think on it. I'll be here when you get back."

"Okay," she said, pulling her jacket out of the wardrobe and slipping some pre-tied tennis shoes onto her socked feet. "I'll see you later." She resisted the urge to kiss him before heading out, knowing that it would only complicate things further.

* * *

Jenn wandered along the trails, trying to focus but finding it hard. Her mind jumped between how cold she was—she should have brought a thicker coat ( _or Bruce_ , her mind said snarkily, forcing her to tell it to shut up)—and how screwed up she was right now.

In the distance, she could see a lone walker, and felt a moment's panic, wondering whether she should duck into the woods, until she recognized Ryan Rowe's hair under the glint of the sun. At the same time, he raised his head, and after a moment began running towards her.

She stopped, staying put and feeling slightly confused. She hadn't talked to him in a while, true, but this sort of reaction wasn't normal—he'd normally let _her_ come to _him._ When he reached her, he gave her a hug much like the one from their previous meeting, making her cough and gasp for air.

"Breathing, Ryan, it's a thing we do!" she managed. He set her down.

"Woman, do you have _any_ idea how worried I've been about you?" he demanded. Once more, she was taken aback and slightly confused by his evident concern.

"Haven't we been over this?" she asked. "I told you, I'm fine."

"Sure of that?"

"Ryan, would I say it if I wasn't?"

"Would you?" He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't decipher. She shook her head in frustration.

"Quit turning my questions around," she half-scolded. "Could you just give me a straight answer?"

"I don't know, can I?" he asked, with a bit of his old grin. She hit him hard on the arm. "Ow! Watch the fists!" he said.

"You haven't explained why you're freaking out yet," she said, crossing her arms and regarding him expectantly.

"Cause I haven't heard from you," he said, brows furrowing again. "And cause you won't tell me what's goin' on, leavin' me to guesses."

"Ryan…" she said doubtfully, surveying him. "It's not like I don't trust you, because I _do_ , but I'm still not at liberty to tell you everything."

"And who's making you stay quiet?" he asked, a hint of danger in his voice. "Why can't you say what you want to say?"

"Maybe it's me," she said, flaring up slightly, "did you ever think of that? I'm not letting myself say anything until I'm sure of… some things. It's for safety."

"For whose?"

"Right now, Ryan Rowe, that's none of your business." He drew back, looking slightly incensed, and she sighed, pressing her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. Was she going to do _anything_ right today? "Look, I'm _sorry_ , but hopefully this'll be over soon and I can tell you everything."

"Why does that sound familiar?" he muttered. She glared at him.

"Quit being a jerk," she said. "I'm doing the best I can." He crossed his arms and just looked at her, and growing slightly uncomfortable, she mirrored the stance. "O _kay_?"

"Fine," he growled. She lifted an eyebrow, and deciding to try and dispel the tension, uncrossed her arms and hugged him, whether he was willing or not. Slowly, she felt him relax a bit.

"Thanks for being concerned," she said before drawing away. "It's nice to know I have friends."

"Yeah," he said, sounding unconvinced. She decided to change the subject.

"Want to walk for a while?" she suggested. He nodded.

"Yeah," he said, possibly hoping to draw information from her. She tried not to roll her eyes, but gave in to the smile.

"How's Dess? Why aren't you riding her?" she asked as they turned in the direction from whence he'd come.

"Ah, it's too cold out here for that little baby," he said with a smirk, scoffing a bit. "I looked in her stall this morning and she was all warm and comfortable—you couldn't draw her out for a fresh pasture."

"So you just came walking?"

"Figured I might run into you."

"Your intuition there was right, at least."

"Yep. Can I ask you a hypothetical question?"

"Hypothetical?" she asked, a smile tickling at her lips, knowing that whenever Lauren asked 'hypothetical' questions at home, they were always clear-cut and obviously about someone in their acquaintance. "Sure, I guess."

"What if I have a friend who's in trouble, but doesn't want help?" She paused, pondering.

"What kind of help?" she asked, an eyebrow lifting.

"Any kind."

"Then hypothetically, try to talk this friend into it."

"Hypothetically, what if I've already tried?"

"Then hypothetically, you should tell someone, like the friend's parents," she said, lifting an eyebrow and trying to second-guess his question. She didn't know any of Ryan's other friends, other than what he said about them, and for the clarity of the question it could be about anyone. Gotham had many temptations, after all. "Now, I need to get your perspective as a guy on something."

"Shoot," he said, looking troubled.

"Okay, I have two friends—a guy and a girl, right? And they, um, sort of love each other, but the girl has some problems with her life. They want to start a relationship, but the girl wants to work out the problems first, but the guy doesn't agree. He wants to help her out, but they're the type of things that she has to do herself, and he'd just distract her. What do you think they should do?"

Ryan pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat. "Sounds like this girl's pretty determined."

"Yeah. She's stubborn."

"These problems—how dangerous are they? I mean, are they just like family feud problems, or drug addiction problems?"

"Family feud, to put it lightly," she said. He nodded.

"Then I think that this guy should just let her do things her way. There'll be plenty of time for over-protectiveness later." He paused, and then scoffed lightly. "We've got some messed-up friends, don't we?"

"Hypothetically?" she asked, giving him a disarming smile.

"Yeah, hypothetically," he replied with an unashamed grin—that worry still lingered on the edge of his gaze, and she realized that nothing she could say was going to dispel it unless she told him what exactly was going on—but there could still be danger. Nothing could be revealed until she confronted her father.

"Look, Ryan," she said, "I kind of need to get going. I need to go have a fight."

"Huh?" he asked, clearly perplexed.

"Verbal," she clarified with a small smile. "Maybe I should have used the word 'argument'."

"Yeah," he agreed with a bit of a smirk, "maybe you should." She hugged him goodbye and turned, walking off in the direction from which she had come.

After a manner of minutes, a turn took her out of sight. Ryan stared at the empty path, chewing nervously on his bottom lip, eyes darkening with troubled thoughts. After a few more seconds, he made a decision and pulled a cell phone out of pocket, selecting a pre-programmed number and putting the phone to his ear.

"Yeah, is this Mr. Redgrove?" he asked when the other end of the line opened with a click. "Yeah, Ryan Rowe. Mm-hmm. No, towards the Wayne Manor." After a listening for a moment, he answered another affirmative before hanging up, a troubled expression crossing his face as he wondered if he'd just made the best choice in his life, or the biggest mistake.

* * *

" _Our theory is correct."_

" _Excellent."_

" _Tonight?"_

" _Of course. I'll have the girls commence immediately."_

**Chapter Eighteen**

When Jenn called through the mansion only to get no reply, she paused for a moment and thought. What did Bruce do when he wasn't at the company?

The answer came easily. He was either talking with Alfred, teasing or spending time with her, reading, working from home, or working out. She decided to try the gym, heading downstairs.

Her hunch proved to be correct. She was familiar with the large room that served as a gymnasium, having made good use of the punching bag while she was there. Bruce had his back to her and was currently whaling on her favorite piece of equipment with an intensity that caused her to lift an eyebrow.

"Geez, Bruce, what did that poor thing ever do to you? Don't kill it," she remarked. He reached out and stopped the swinging bag, showing no surprise that she was there, and turned to look at her.

"Just warming myself up a bit," he remarked, a certain amount of humor in his tone.

"Bruce, we've got to talk," she said, with no preamble aside from her first comment. He lifted an eyebrow, regarding her studiously, and then shrugged.

"Sure." He began unwinding the tape from his hands, turning away a bit, and she moved over and sat on one of the workout benches, examining with a momentary interest the weights racked on the bar before turning again to look at him.

"You want me to stay?" It sounded like a question, so he treated it as such, nodding slowly.

"Yes."

"You're not just saying that?"

"Why would I 'just say' it?" he wanted to know, forehead creasing as he lifted an eyebrow. "If I didn't want you to stay, I'd tell you and you'd go."

"Well, excuse me for not being too clear on things right now," she muttered, crossing her arms snugly and looking almost like a sulky child. He tried not to smile, knowing that it would upset the delicate balance they were maintaining by setting her off. "Well," she continued, "I still don't know. I think my Dad's really coming back to Gotham, but there's no way to be sure. If he _does_ , I'm going to go talk to him."

"Are you sure you want to?" He already knew the answer to his question, but wanted her to confirm it, which she did by nodding resolutely.

"I have to put this—him—behind me. When I _do_ , though—if I get out alive, if you still want me here—then it will probably put you and Alfred in danger. Dad doesn't take kindly to being opposed, and if you're openly supporting my decision to sever ties—and it'll _have_ to be open, or it'd just be hiding again—then he'll count you as opposition." She lifted an eyebrow at him in a silent question.

 _Why do I feel like she's trying to scare me off?_ Did he have to say out loud that her attempts weren't going to work? He allowed himself a half-smile, walking over and standing in front of her. "I think I can deal with that."

"Can Alfred?" she asked, looking up at him but not appearing particularly annoyed that it was necessary to do so.

"Yes."

"There'll probably be some red tape legally that I have to clear."

"No problem."

"Are you going to say yes to everything?" she asked in half-amusement, half-exasperation.

"No," he replied, just on the side of proudly. She hadn't known he could act like that much of a kid. She regarded him carefully.

"Can we…" she paused, and then continued. "Can we slow this way down? At least till everything is worked out, and then we can speed ahead as fast as we want and to hell with the consequences." He smirked at that, and she continued rambling, avoiding his eyes, obviously figuring he'd object to this. She'd gone from challenging to self-conscious in seconds flat.

_What happened to scaring me off?_

"I mean, I know it's not ideal except practically, even _if_ we don't want to move slow and I—"

He moved into a crouch, around eye-level to her, and reached out with both hands, cupping her face and surprising her into looking up at him, cutting herself off with a brief gasp. She reached up one hand to grab his left wrist, her index finger and thumb latched around the base of his thumb, and he allowed himself a smile.

"Now," he said lowly, a bit of hair falling over his forehead, "what gives you the idea I'd want to push you into anything?"

 _Push him away, he's just distracting you,_ Jenn's common sense advised, and she quickly told it to shut up and shove it before her curious side pushed him just to see if he'd lose his balance. "Umm…" she said, eyes darting everywhere but towards his gaze. "Maybe I've been listening to too many uninformed people."

"Maybe," he said with a smile that sent shivers down her spine. At that point, his cell phone rang, and she was rather relieved. Chemistry wasn't allowed to get in the way of what had to be done, despite its own opinion. Bruce frowned and checked the phone. "Damn. I'd better get this."

"Don't let me keep you," she said, managing to summon a teasing tone and smiling at him, though she felt more like she needed a cold shower than flirting.

"We'll talk later," he said, a hint of promise in his tone.

 _Make that two cold showers_ , she thought as he left the room.

* * *

They did indeed talk later, though they never resumed their interesting position from before. Bruce had agreed with Jenn's decision to slow down, and other than some light banter tossed back and forth in the car on the way to the hospital, nothing occurred.

Alfred was feeling ready to come home, having gotten all the sleep he needed the night before, and Bruce was willing to bring him home, but Dr. Whittle firmly said that at least one more night was required, or until they got the analysis of the toxin from the lab.

Jenn got the odd feeling that Alfred knew—or at least suspected—what had occurred between her and Bruce, so she kept the conversation going, fearing groundlessly that he might bring it up—though if she'd taken a moment to think, she'd have remembered that Alfred was far too tactful to do something as embarrassing as that.

Despite Alfred's protests, they spent the better part of the afternoon there, keeping him company, talking and laughing with ease. Alfred told her some rather… _entertaining_ stories that had Bruce burying his face in his hands—actually _embarrassed_ —and muttering 'unbelievable' multiple times, which only contributed to her hysterics and Alfred's chuckles. When twilight was on the horizon—figuratively speaking, as the city was too clustered around them to see much beyond the nearby buildings—Bruce gladly made an escape from the conversation, heading out to the hallway when his cell phone rang. Jenn was just glad that there wasn't a nurse around at the time to get him booted out—she'd seen some of the nurses. They were tough—the fact that he was Bruce Wayne wouldn't mean anything to them.

"You know some good stories, Alfred," she said, turning back to the butler with a chuckle.

"Mmm," he agreed with a smile. "You work for the Waynes as long as I have and you can't help but pick up amusing anecdotes. Maybe your stay with Master Bruce will be one of them."

"Possibly—but I can't exactly think of anything spectacularly entertaining that's happened while I've been here," she said with a shrug.

"Hmm, maybe it'll be the story of how you and Master Bruce met to curious minds." She fought the color rising to her cheeks, crossing her arms slightly and leaning from her chair on to the foot of the bed in order to appear occupied. Alfred was implying that hers and Bruce's relationship would hold importance to their future lives—and she had the inexplicable urge to hug the old butler. She smiled.

"Maybe."

At that point, Bruce returned to the room, causing them to turn heads and look at him. He glanced at them both. "Not telling secrets about me, are you?"

"Now Bruce, you know anything we have to say about you can be said right in front of you," Jenn said with a smirk. Bruce grimaced.

"Yeah, all too-well. Look, Jenn, we've got to hit the road. There're problems at work and I'm your only ride home. Sorry to deprive you of her _delightful_ company, Alfred." She gave Bruce an indignant look.

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and directed her attention to the butler.

"Alfred, tell him that I'm wonderful company."

"The best," said Alfred with an amused smile. Bruce shot him a faux-annoyed glance.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be on _my_ side? I'm the one you've known for all these years, after all."

"My point exactly, sir," he responded. Jenn laughed and leaned forward, kissing Alfred on the cheek.

"Sorry we've got to go."

"No, no, go on," said Alfred. "You two shouldn't be wasting all your time on me."

"Don't be so self-deprecating," said Jenn, going over to Bruce. "We love you, man." Alfred chuckled, and Bruce gave a wave.

"Bye, Alfred."

"Bye, Alfred," she echoed.

"Goodbye, Master Bruce, Miss Redgrove." Jenn saw him close his eyes as the door shut, and she turned to Bruce with a grin.

"I think we wore him out," she commented, cupping her hands together and blowing on them. Bruce noticed.

"You cold?" he wanted to know.

"A little," she admitted. "I never got why they keep hospitals either freezing or sweltering." Bruce grinned at her, shrugging from his casual brown jacket and offering it. She accepted it with a smile, knowing that it would be overlarge on her, but that con was outpro-ed as his distinctive smell enveloped her and she inhaled, feeling stupid but not concerned with that at the moment.

The drive back to the mansion was mainly permeated by Jenn teasing Bruce over her newfound wealth of knowledge of his childhood, and him retaliating quite well, considering that he didn't have as much information of the same. When they reached the manor, he apologized for having to head out again, she struck back with it'd be nice to have the house for herself—both grinned at that, knowing that the 'house' was way too big for any one person—and for a moment, she lingered, uncertain, before leaning across towards him. He met her halfway.

A few minutes later, she headed up the steps to the manor, the purr of Bruce's Aston Martin still reaching her ears and a grin on her face. It had gotten dark by now, and she paused outside the front door, searching in her jeans pocket for the keys. It seemed absurd that a house so obviously owned by the wealthy wouldn't have something more advanced, voice-identification or a key code, but no, she'd been given a key and told where the spares were. There were numerous spares, apparently, hiding in very inventive places—not under the mat or in the gutter, like other houses. More like a behind a very precisely placed loose brick, at the bottom of a flowerpot holding a flytrap all the way down in the greenhouse, under a stone on the cobbled steps.

She pushed her key in the hole and twisted, unlocking the door and letting herself in. Concentrating on removing the stubborn key from the lock, she didn't notice anything amiss until the noise came.

She turned immediately, but saw nothing but the expansive foyer. Yanking her key out without looking at it and pushing the door closed, she carefully crossed the foyer, tucking the key into her back pocket, eyes lifting carefully to the ceiling and back to the floor, taking everything in. Nothing seemed misplaced, so what was the noise? As Bruce had said before, he owned neither dog nor cat, Alfred was in the hospital, and Bruce obviously was gone.

She found herself wishing for a gun or weapon of some sort, actually looking around for one, but there was nothing that would suffice. Not doing something as stupid as calling out 'Hello?', she moved quietly towards the living room.

She passed a hallway and saw something out of the corner of her eye, but before she could turn and look she was seized from behind, her captor's grip iron against her ribcage. She shoved an elbow backwards, summoning all her knowledge from former martial arts courses, but people came swarming from the hallway—women, she realized, three of them dressed in revealing black leather—and helped to subdue her. She didn't scream, knowing that it would do no good at all with the manor as isolated as it was. Pulling the trick she had months ago, she lifted, letting her captor support her, and kicked two of them squarely in the chests—they seemed completely unfazed, seizing her ankles and holding them tightly.

Someone grabbed her head by the hair, holding it still from its thrashing, and she struggled further as she felt a sharp pain in her neck. Within seconds, she felt her consciousness sliding from her grip, and her thrashing about became clumsier but more violent as she fought it with all that she had, knocking a vase from a nearby stand. It shattered upon impact with the floor.

Eventually, though, the narcotic took effect, and she slowly lapsed into an insensible state. Her four captors, who had carried out the entire mission in silence, stopped, and the one holding her from behind quickly laid her down on the floor. The two she had kicked in the chest retrieved thin but strong rope from the packs on their belts and set about tying her hands and feet. The last one, who'd administered the injection and was obviously the leader, bent to brush Jenn's hair almost tenderly from her closed eyes before jerking her thumb over her shoulder.

Moving quickly and efficiently, the women removed Jenn from the manor.

* * *

When Jenn awoke, her memory didn't immediately serve her, so she was left wondering why she was staring at a dilapidated ceiling, the rafters of which were clearly being eaten away. She lifted her head, eyes slit, to see better. Pale light shone on the doorway of the room from a window on the right side, the only illumination other than a wide, dirty skylight looking out of place set in the tattered ceiling, but before she could observe anything else, a sting on her neck invoked a recall and she gasped, pushing herself into a sitting position.

"You should probably have some water," came a sultry female voice. "Heaven knows you're thirsty. Most of our tranquilizers do that, and I must say that I doubt that Serenity was stingy with the dose."

Jenn, who'd twisted her head around at the start of the speech, observed a woman crouched nearby, rather too close for comfort while still mostly masked by shadows, and quickly scrambled to all fours—her limbs were being clumsier than usual—before standing. A wave of lightheadedness hit her and she immediately pressed a hand to her forehead, stumbling back and hitting the door. She groped for the doorknob but found it locked.

"No, no, no fun in _that_ , is there?" purred the woman. "Escaping before time would ruin our plans. That wouldn't make me very happy, not at _all_."

"Who _are_ you?" rasped Jenn, terribly aware that she _was_ thirsty and that her throat was parched. A frown obscured most of what she could see of the woman's face.

"I was wondering when you'd find your tongue, but now that you have I wish you hadn't. You sound _terrible,_ dear." The woman rose from the crouch, going towards the single table in the room, upon which rested a bottle of water, and grabbing the container. Jenn, upon seeing it, yearned to leap forward, snatch it from the woman's grasp, and gulp it down, but restrained herself, pressing back against the door. If the wood was decrepit enough, she might just be able to break through…

"Who _are_ you?" she growled again, refusing to even look at the water the woman was now offering for fear that she might lose control and take it. That wouldn't be good, as she didn't know whether it was poisoned or drugged or anything, and was fairly certain that if she got her hands on it she wouldn't care. The woman sighed.

"If I tell you, will you drink? For heaven's sake, you sound awful."

Jenn was dying for the water anyway, drugged or not. She quickly seized it, popping the cap off and taking a few long drinks, draining the bottle of half its contents in seconds—there was no odd taste, which slightly relieved her, though she was aware that it was possible to drug a drink without leaving traces. After her thirst was somewhat quenched, Jenn warily lowered the bottle, regarding the woman.

"All right," she said, her voice more normal now that it had been moistened. "I kept my end of the deal, now it's your turn. Who are you, and why am I not at home?"

The woman gave a laugh, and then moved into the moonlight so that Jenn could see her attire, spreading her hands and turning once or twice. She was beautiful, with locks of golden-blonde hair that tumbled in thick curls to mid-back, eyes that could have been blue, green, or gray—Jenn couldn't tell in the dark—and a classically cut face that was pale in the moonlight but for the dark red lipstick lining the thin but long mouth. She was dressed similarly to her lackeys, although unlike their various styles including halter tops, midriff-baring vests and low-cut pants, no skin showed. However, her outfit was skin-tight and fitted to her long, curvaceous frame, and on her abdomen was the bright red, rough shape of an hourglass.

Jenn was tempted to state the obvious—that this woman was the Black Widow—but decided not to, if only to tick her off. Maybe it was foolish to attempt to annoy the woman, but it was all she had—she wasn't stupid enough to believe she could take on this woman who was taller, bigger, and stronger than her—from the looks of it, at least. Otherwise she would have attacked her the second she'd seen the outfit.

The Widow looked annoyed, perching her hands on her hips with a scowl. "Oh, playing that game now, are we?"

"Well, if you're going with the hourglass," said Jenn, succumbing to temptation, "why not glue on four extra arms as well? You know, two on each side, between your arm and leg—and what about feelers? You can't be a Black Widow without fee—"

The Widow immediately punched her, sending her stumbling to the right. She cupped the side of her face in her hand to see if it was bleeding—it hurt like someone had shattered her left cheekbone, but she wasn't dying, so she worked the muscles for a moment and raised an eyebrow. "Geez, lighten up some! It was just a suggestion."

"You're a real smartass," the Widow purred, sounding not quite contented—more like self-satisfied, as she crossed her arms beneath her chest. "I should have figured. Ah, well, the energetic ones are always more entertaining than the passive. We'll just have to show you your place, won't we?"

"Sorry, I'm a slow learner," Jenn said. "Could you repeat that?" In reply, the Widow cracked her fist across Jenn's face again. Pain exploded along Jenn's mouth, but her rebellion and contempt for this woman, this murderess, overwhelmed it. "Nope," she said, checking for blood and finding that her lip had split, " _still_ not getting it."

She braced herself for another hit, but it never came. Instead, the Widow crossed her arms again and laughed. "He told me you had annoying spirit. I really never believed him."

"He?" said Jenn, feeling a tingle like an electric shock run down her spine. "Which _he_ are we talking about?"

"Him," said the Widow with a certain air of disgust, jamming her thumb over her shoulder towards a corner of the room completely obscured by shadow. Alek Redgrove stepped into the light, causing the blood to drain from his daughter's face as she moved immediately away from the door, to the opposite side of the room from him.

"Hello, Jenn."

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Wow, Dad," Jenn managed, when finally capable of speech. "I really wouldn't advise you to quit your day job. Don't you know that crime doesn't pay?"

Jenn wasn't sure why she was being such a, as the Widow so eloquently put it, smartass. It wasn't usually her temperament. Maybe it was because she'd never been in this type of situation before and was unsure of how to react. Her sense of humor was pushed to the fore as her other feelings scrambled to hide behind it, to use a visually amusing metaphor, and despite the hits she'd taken it was worth it. Maybe it was just seeing them get so pissed off at her when they were expecting to be taken seriously. Maybe it was just her need to defy them in some way. She didn't care.

Alek scowled and balled his hands into fists. Jenn noted this and leveled a glare at him. "Dad, I wouldn't even consider it. I mean, _her_ I'm pretty sure I can do nothing about," she said, nodding at the Widow, "but as for fighting _you_ … well, I ride, work out, and I've taken about five years of karate. You sit around in your big office and argue all day with your representatives. And I'm younger, whereas you're old and brittle."

She was aware that she was pushing Alek, but was almost praying for him to take a swing at her so that she could give a justified retaliation. She glanced at the Widow for a sign that she was pushing things too far, but the woman appeared more amused than anything. Jenn decided to file away the Widow's obvious dislike for men for further use.

Alek finally relaxed, a slow, ugly smile coming over his face as he found a way to strike back. "How's _Bruce_ , dear child?"

It did the trick. Jenn stiffened immediately. She was fairly certain that they hadn't gotten to Bruce, but the reminder that he was out there and probably in danger served to put her on the edge. She tried to relax a bit. "I don't know; why don't you let me borrow your cell phone and I'll ask him, _Daddy?_ "

"Oh, I doubt that's necessary," said Alek, giving a wolfish grin. "I believe he'll be on his way over before too long."

"What'd you do? Tell him that I'm here?" Jenn scoffed. "Wonderful plan, Dad. I mean, me, the snappish, stubborn child of the biggest bastard in Gotham City—that's _sure_ to tempt him."

"Pretend all you like. He cares about you, just as you care about him—despite your numerous attempts to pull the wool over my eyes."

"Wow, Dad, you caught me," said Jenn with a tone of feigned disappointment. "We're having a tremendous, passionate love affair and I was just planning to sneak up and knife you in your sleep so that I could get all the inheritance money and we could combine our fortunes to buy our own country where we could live away from meddling fathers." The Widow chuckled, putting a foul look on Alek's face. He obviously wasn't pleased that his colleague was finding his rebellious daughter's words amusing.

"Daughter, you've made it too obvious. I hoped to lure you from hiding with that little stunt in England… how _is_ dear Max, by the way? Those sedatives must be rough, wouldn't you say?"

"Nunya," she replied, eyes narrowed.

"Nunya what?" he demanded, sounding irritated.

"Nunya business," she retorted, cracking a smirk at the corniness of the joke. _That was for you, Lauren._ He glared at her, but couldn't keep a smug smile off his face as he continued.

"Obviously, you don't care enough about your friends to come to their aid." _He's just playing mind games with you, Jenn. He's just messing around._ Despite her reassuring thoughts, Jenn tightened her fists to the point that the knuckles of her fingers cracked. "No, your friend Mr. Rowe provided what the useless Maltons could not."

Jenn stopped dead. Ryan couldn't have… he _wouldn't_ have…? Seeing her shock, her father gleefully continued. "Oh, yes. He called me immediately and told me where you were, though I had my suspicions already. You shouldn't blame him, though—poor boy thought he was helping you." _Well, that answers_ that _hypothetical question. Leave your friend alone and tell her dad to shove it._ In response, Jenn flicked up a slender middle finger, directing its back straight towards her father.

"As much as I love to see a man-woman squabble," yawned the Widow, "this is getting tiresome. Don't you think you've gloated enough, Alek?"

"Not by half," Alek said, narrowing his eyes at his daughter, who continued to display her finger as if nothing was amiss.

"Dad, I kind of feel sorry for you," she sighed.

"Why would that be?" She couldn't believe he'd taken the bait—then again, he never was especially bright. Thankfully, _she_ took after her mother.

"You're working with a woman named the _Black Widow_ , dumbass! She's going to kill you when all is said and done!"

"Which proves exactly how ignorant you are. I'm _far_ too useful to her for her to kill," Alek said calmly, not at all perturbed.

"Oh, my butt," said Jenn, finally retracting the finger as she felt a bit lightheaded and sliding down the wall to sit, wrists crossed and resting on her bent knees. "Don't kid yourself, Dad. You're not important. She just needed you to get to me."

"And why would we need you?"

"You _just told me!_ " she exclaimed, unable to _believe_ this. If _all_ the Widow's minions were like this, she'd have no problem getting out. Unfortunately, she doubted it. If the scene at the mansion had been any indication, Alek was the only male in the place, and the females were fast, efficient, and ignored pain willfully. "You're planning on using _me_ to lure Bruce here for some harebrained scheme that _isn't_ going to work, because he's too smart to fall into some dense trap you've set up."

"Well, we'll test your misguided faith when the time comes, won't we?" asked Alek smugly. "Until then, I hope you're comfortable here."

"Oh, yeah, great and cozy," Jenn said sarcastically. "Look, widescreen TV," she said, pointing to the bare, peeling wall. "Lots of fun." He narrowed his eyes at her, and she glanced at him. "How did you poison Alfred, by the way?"

His smile returned immediately, and she wanted to pop him one for his obvious delight at the reminder. Maybe she could break one of the legs off the table… "Ah, yes, Alfred," he said, steepling his fingers. "He lives in the gatehouse of the manor, correct? Did you know that if you put a certain type of poison on the air conditioning filters, it'll make the very air you breathe toxic gas? Not fatal except in prolonged cases… but you never know."

"Bastard," she cursed him. "You were just scared because you know you couldn't take him on yourself. Alfred would have kicked your ass."

"There was no need to," he said, looking down at her with boredom.

"Burn in hell."

"Alek," said the Widow suddenly, snapping from what appeared to be a reverie, "would you mind going and seeing if the girls are at their posts? We don't want... unexpected company sneaking up on us, now, do we?" she asked with a mocking smile.

Alek sent one last look full of loathing towards his daughter—she reciprocated in full—and unlocked the door, slamming it on his way out. Jenn rolled her eyes at his childishness, and then turned her attention to the considerably more dangerous character, now that her clown of a sire was out of the way. Not that clowns were benign in _any_ way. Lauren had convinced her that clowns were evil—mimes being the evilest—with very few exceptions.

"I commend you for your judgment," said the Widow, smiling in a rather sinister manner. "I _do_ intend to kill your father. You're a rather good judge of character."

"No, I just read the signs," said Jenn bluntly. "Obviously you hate men, though heaven knows why—without 'em, we'd be without people, so looks like your little vendetta is going to end stalemate."

"It doesn't bother you at all that I'm going to kill him?" the Widow asked, looking intently at Jenn—though the latter noticed that the woman completely avoided the _whole no-men-no-life_ thing she'd brought up, for which she commended herself.

At the question, Jenn leaned her head back against the wall. She felt hideously evil and impious for even thinking it, but the truth was that she felt nothing but hatred against the man who had been anything but a father to her all her life. She felt that she should have a stirring of love, even the barest smidgen, for the man who'd sired her, but she didn't. Nick Malton was the closest thing to a father figure she'd ever had and she loved him a thousand times more than she'd ever loved Alek. Here in Gotham, Bruce was her support—though their relationship was _anything_ but father-daughter; the very thought made her shudder—and Alfred her wisdom. There was no need for Alek, not that there ever had been.

"I'm probably damned for saying this," Jenn said carefully, "but it really doesn't."

The Widow tipped back her head and laughed, peals of flawless mirth issuing from her mouth. Jenn scowled. She really didn't find her admittance that her biological father meant nothing to her all that amusing. It saddened her, actually. "See, I _knew_ there was something about you that I liked," she said, moving forward and crouching in front of her.

Jenn had to resist a strong desire to lash out with her foot and catch the woman in her pretty, lean face, especially when the Widow reached forward with a smile that was anything but benevolent and pushed a few strands of Jenn's hair behind her ear, moving her fingers down to grasp at Jenn's chin.

"Perhaps there's hope for you yet," she murmured, leaning close. Jenn got the sudden realization that the woman was going to try to kiss her, and with the utmost disgust, she curled her hand into a fist and smacked the Widow's wrist away, forcing her to release her grip on Jenn's face.

The Widow drew back, looking enraged at the blatant rejection. Jenn decided that she was dealing with a psychopath when the Widow strode over to the table and pounded her fists on it, reducing it with that one hit to a splintering heap. The woman then began picking up shards of wood and throwing them hard at the walls, screaming out frustration once or twice. Jenn hugged her knees, unsure of whether or not to make a smart comment and risk getting impaled by a thing that people used to slay vampires. She decided against it.

" _Another_ one," she shrieked, running her hands through her hair, "corrupted by men's useless promises!" She whirled and pointed an accusing finger at Jenn. "You may deny it, you can contradict it _all you want_ , but I can tell! I can smell his _stench_ on you. You've allowed yourself to be marked as territory, you've become a _possession!_ " Her voice spiked from yelling to hoarse screaming several times as she ranted.

 _Bruce doesn't have a_ stench. _It's a_ scent _, and I love it very much, thank you,_ Jenn's mind mused as she realized she was still wearing the overlarge, brown jacket, the pleasant smell of which had been lending her the unconscious courage to mouth off. Burrowing slightly into it, she turned her nose to sniff at the collar, getting a trace of Bruce's distinct scent and feeling adrenaline flood her veins, feeling her spine renew its steel.

The Widow noticed, and gave another shriek of rage. "Look at you now! You've become dependent! You're _disgusting,_ a betrayal to your sex!" Her voice dropped as she pointed a shaking finger at Jenn. "I'd hoped for you to perhaps see the wisdom of our ways, stay on with us and join our fight, but now I see that that hope is _impossible._ You're his now, and the only way to dissolve that bond is to _kill you both_."

With that, she strode over to the door with several long-legged strides and yanked it open, slamming it so hard behind her that the frame almost cracked. Jenn heard the scrape of metal on metal and knew that it had been locked again, and turned her head to look out the window, inhaling Bruce's smell.

"Well, I guess _she_ doesn't take rejection well," she muttered to the empty room.

* * *

Bruce shifted the thin stack of manila folders he held to the other arm as he felt around in his pocket for the key, inserting said object and unlocking the door. He let himself in, locking it behind him and then casting a gaze that held a hint of irritation at the folders.

The call he'd gotten had appeared to be a dead end, a faux lead into the murders—no one knew who had made it—but as he'd been heading home again, Lucius had arrived with the financial information on the deceased. That had lightened his mood somewhat, but he was still a bit peeved that prank callers had tampered.

"Jenn?" he called, eyes scanning the staircase. There was no reply, but he wasn't really surprised—she could be on the other side of the house for all he knew. What bothered him was the broken vase lying in the hallway that led to the first living room. Jenn could have broken it, but she'd have cleaned it up.

Proceeding with wariness, senses alert, he went down the hall, eyes scoping out every nook and cranny in which someone could hide. There was no sign of anyone, but the half closed door to the living room revealed signs of intrusion as well—the furniture had been moved. He pushed the door open the rest of the way, looking around but seeing no one.

No one, but not necessarily no _thing_. The furniture along one side of the wall had been moved into the center of the room, exposing the wall, which bore—a message. He surveyed it with a grim expression, the black paint combined with the red hourglass at the bottom right corner noted and put away in his mind before he actually read the words.

_Dearest Mr. Wayne,_

_We regret to inform you that your_ friend _Miss Jennifer Redgrove is unable to continue her residence with you at this time. However, if you wish to visit and save her a very painful session with a rusty knife, feel free to come to Kelsey's old chemical plant on 12_ _th_ _, around midnight._

 _We feel obligated to invite you to bring a few of your police friends—only if you wish for them, and darling_ Jenn _, to lose their lives, of course. We eagerly await your visit, and ask that you don't come early or late on our account. Much love to you._

It was unsigned. Bruce read it once more and then checked the clock—it was ten. Enough time to get in, take care of this nuisance, get Jenn, and get out before they were expecting him.

Making haste but not running, he headed for the library, pressed the keys that would reveal the secret passage to the cave, and descended.

* * *

He concealed the Tumbler a few blocks away from the plant's exit. He was sure that they would expect for Bruce Wayne to arrive in the front, not Batman to arrive in back, but he was also sure that they would be watching, so he moved with stealth, making use of the shadows and blending in with ease.

If he _was_ seen, then he could just make use of the training afforded by the League of Shadows and Rā's al Ghūl. _"Invisibility is largely a matter of patience…"_ _If_ he was seen, he could wait, hidden, until the alarm died down and whoever was on guard had been convinced that it was just an abnormally large shadow. With this in mind, he quickly and effortlessly scaled the gate.

The chemical plant was made up of several buildings, but he figured that his best bet would be the biggest center structure. With the assistance of a grappling hook, climbing up the side proved to be no problem. When he came upon a broken, wide window, he took the opportunity to enter unnoticed, looking around him to see an abandoned office.

He normally didn't work indoors. Too many walls, floors, ceilings. The lack of openness was a constant bother that had to be negotiated, and he'd rather not take the time to deal with it. Tonight, though, it would be an inevitable factor. He'd just have to work with it.

Stepping through the doorway, he found himself on a concrete platform, railed with iron. The reflective lenses in place over his eyes were turned in one direction, and then another, checking the security as he remained in the shadows—the plant, abandoned and condemned as it was, had relatively poor lighting, with only a few dim bulbs in swinging lamps above the main section of the building—a factory-like interior.

There were three people that he could see—all guards, judging by their patrolling walks, and—this came as a hint of a surprise, but wasn't wholly unexpected judging by their apparent leader—all women. This would complicate things slightly. He generally tried to avoid harming women—not that some of them didn't deserve it—but if things came to extremes—like now—someone had to do something. He gave himself license to do what he needed.

He decided on attacking the guard closest to him, a woman who was walking his way but hadn't noticed him amongst the dark. She could give him information. Using the grapple-gun, he pulled himself unnoticed into the wooden rafters and waited, not moving a muscle.

His patience was rewarded. The woman, arms crossed boredly over her top—if it could be called that, it exposed her skinny stomach and a large amount of her ribcage—strode right beneath him. Her hands were far from the gun holster on her belt, giving him copious time to swoop down and wrap his arms around her, pinning her effectively with one arm and covering her mouth with an armored glove before she had time to react vocally. Physically lifting her from her feet, he sped into the office and was out the broken window before the blink of an eye, his new captive in tow.

Tanya was terrified. This was supposed to be an easy assignment—patrol the second level to make sure no intruders sniffed around their pretty little captive, hang around till the whole Wayne interaction was complete, hit payday and rise in the boss's good graces. There was _nothing_ in the job description about getting attacked by a giant bat.

Whenever she'd read about the Batman in the papers, she'd been very skeptical of the entire deal. She figured that with her Glock she could take him on in a heartbeat. However, it turned out he was much scarier face to face. He was at least four inches taller than she was—and she was very tall for a woman at five foot ten, strong, too, one of the reasons the Widow had picked her for guard duty—and stronger than iron. All she could do in the way of screaming was try to yell for yelp, but his glove was pressed hard against her mouth, muting her screams and digging into her mouth when she attempted to make more noise.

In no time, they'd reached the roof, and Batman released his prisoner from the cruel embrace, only to grab her shoulders, digging his fingers in tightly to show that he meant business. The reflective lenses caught what light there was and conserved it, making the eyes of the cowl glow in a hellish way, and the woman obviously couldn't be more terrified.

"Where is she?" he snarled, his voice growling and rasping in a frightening manner, his tone just on the side of a shout. The woman obviously knew what he was talking about, and didn't even pretend.

"Second level… office on the other side of the building," she gasped, trying not to hyperventilate. "There's a skylight… please, don't kill me!" She'd never known death could be so horrifying.

He let her go, but his hand snaked out, finding and jabbing at a cluster of sensitive nerves at the base of her neck, rendering her unconscious immediately. He then continued on his expedition, this time crossing the rooftop—the office was in the same building, and he figured he could see Jenn through the skylight.

He reached the other side quickly. There were at least half a dozen skylights peering down into rooms below, so he began looking through them one by one, scanning the offices efficiently before moving on.

Jenn was beneath the third one he tried.

**Chapter Twenty**

Jenn was growing exceedingly frustrated with her continuous failed escape attempts.

First, she'd tried crashing through the door. Apparently, the wood was made of stronger stuff than she'd previously anticipated, and she'd only come away with a bruised shoulder. She'd tried the same on the walls and floor, but those efforts proved fruitless as well.

After that, she'd tried using one of the legs of the table that the Widow had desecrated to smash through the window. That plan had worked well, but upon taking a closer look outside she realized that she was at least thirty feet above the ground, which was solid asphalt. There was no way down, the steep walls around her remaining solid.

She'd examined the skylight thoroughly and determined that it was made of thick stuff, so even if she'd been able to climb through it if it was broken, anything she threw at it would just rebound and hit her in the head. That wouldn't be a pleasant experience.

She'd begun entertaining herself by hitting the shards of glass still remaining in the window frame with the leg of the table, breaking them off and smoothing out the edges in case she decided to do something absolutely crazy and jump, but needless to say this got old fast.

Pacing was good therapy but all in all useless in the way of escape, useless in the way of anything but ranting to herself over her father and that psycho lady and Ryan Rowe's misunderstanding and her father again. And Bruce, too, since she knew he'd be too stupid to stay away.

Banging on the door quickly got old when a foreign female voice ordered her to cut it out or she'd be hurt. She was quiet for a quarter of an hour and was just debating on arming herself with the table leg and testing her apparent guard's patience enough so that she'd come barging in and get a direct hit in the face when the sound came from above her.

It could be just a bird, crash-landing on the skylight, but she was hopeful and moved to the center of the room to look up.

The Batman was looking down at her.

"Holy crap!" she said aloud, and then quieter, mindful of listening ears, "Holy crap!"

He didn't seem overly concerned at the noise she'd made. He glanced back and forth, then down through the glass again, apparently visually testing its strength. Then he disappeared from view. Jenn was smart enough to get out of the way.

Seconds later, he came crashing through, raining thick chips of glass everywhere and forcing her to cover her head, and she was certain he would have ploughed straight through the floor below if his descent hadn't been slowed by something he was holding on to that was apparently hooked to something above. She'd just straightened again when there came the sound of cursing—in Mandarin, Jenn figured, but she couldn't be sure—right outside the door.

Batman quickly motioned for her to get out of the way and she retreated immediately to a corner, only hesitating to pick up the table leg for a weapon if the situation called for it. Batman obviously had the situation in hand, though, concealing himself behind the door as a pretty, delicate-featured Asian woman came barging through, ranting at the top of her lungs in Mandarin and checking herself when she realized that she could see no one.

Turning quickly as the hairs on the back of her neck lifted, she bit back a shriek when she saw the giant bat, managing to draw the knife from the sheath on her belt and stab directly at his chest. He thanked God for Lucius Fox's technology once again as the blade of the knife snapped off on impact and he quickly knocked the woman unconscious.

Jenn had been silent throughout the entire operation, staying out of his way, and didn't venture from her shadowed corner until he looked at her. "Are you okay?" she asked, approaching gingerly.

"I've been worse," came the gruff voice in reply. Beneath the cowl, brown-green eyes were moving rapidly, visually assessing her—she had a red mark on her cheekbone with undertones of blue that would probably form into a nasty bruise, and her lip was split, but she otherwise appeared unharmed. She was walking and functioning well. They hadn't hurt her beyond knocking her around a bit. "Come here."

She willingly moved even closer, and he pulled her to his chest with one arm, using the other to activate the grapple gun, catching a hold on the raised edge of the skylight. "Hold on," he cautioned, and she obediently placed her wrists on his armored shoulders, locking her hands around his neck as they were pulled into the air.

When they reached the roof, he let her go and she took a couple of steps back before tilting her head to the chilly sky and finding the moon. After ensuring that she was, indeed, outside again and free (for how long was anyone's guess, but she doubted anyone would get her again while in his company) she turned again to look at Batman—she couldn't be sure, but she was pretty convinced that behind the reflective lenses he was looking at her.

Something seemed exceedingly familiar about him. Maybe it was his height, his build, maybe his mouth—she couldn't make a connection and her mind was frustrated with itself. He had a reason for concealing his identity, though, so she would try not to guess. "Thanks," she said first. He waved it away. "How did you know where I was?" she asked next.

"I'm well-informed," he said, and she suppressed a laugh of mingled amusement and relief. Her eyes widened, though, when she remembered the main source of her concern.

"Oh, but you have to go find Bruce Wayne! He's the one they're trying to reach through all this—I think they're planning to get something out of him, money or stocks or something, then they'll kill him—the woman in there, the Black Widow, she's a _psycho._ We can't let him just go into this—"

She cut herself off as his hands went up to his head, looking at him in momentary confusion—what was he doing?

Batman removed the cowl.

And Bruce Wayne lifted his head and looked her straight in the eye.

* * *

When Janis Slovaks met Caspar Brewst for the first time, she'd been stricken with awe over his handsome appearance, his audacious manner, and his fearlessness that showed itself in a fierce temper. The two young Germans had rapidly fallen in love and married.

Their first daughter, Gertie, was born two years after the wedding, followed by the middle daughter, Diane, and the youngest, little Sonja—three blonde-haired beauties with blue eyes and pearly white teeth. Until Gertie's seventeenth year, their family life was structured and solid, if not quite happy, Caspar's manner quickly becoming tiresome to Janis and his temper combined with the drinking he'd picked up becoming a problem. However, the two never fought very seriously and their girls were contented with knowing that all parents fought, and just because Caspar and Janis quarreled more often than was usual, that didn't mean that it would become a problem.

That quickly came crashing down on their heads when their Caspar, drunk and provoked by a snide comment Janis had made—beat their mother over the head with a gin bottle, knocking her unconscious, and left his daughters without a word.

Their mother had never awoken from the coma she'd been forced into, and eventually was euthanized a few years later, but two of the three daughters would never know this. There was some talk of putting the girls into an orphanage, as they had no living relatives willing to take the three hellions on. Gertie declared that they were _not_ going to separate, and disappeared with her little sisters.

A year later saw them in dire straits. Gertie had been unable to find work, her meager savings had exhausted themselves, and she'd secretly turned to prostitution to put bread on the table for her sisters. She couldn't hide her occupation forever, though, and when Diane and Sonja found out what their oldest sister was doing, they at first tried to persuade her that starvation was better than selling her body, but when she refused, declaring that she wouldn't forget her little sisters like that, they declared their resolution to find work as well.

Gertie refused immediately. Prostitution worked for her, but there was no way she was going to let her sisters become hookers. For a while, Diane and Sonja subsided, as neither of them wanted to enter the profession. When Gertie started to become skinnier and skinnier, though, the two insisted, and when she refused once more, took matters into their own hands

They began working steadily, bringing more food to the table and restoring Gertie to herself—as much of herself as she could be, that was.

Both Diane and Sonja were stunned by their sister's murder. They'd found her naked, finger-shaped bruises around her neck, obviously strangled to death. Checking with the madame of the house, they found that the last man she'd been with was one of her regulars with a violent history, explaining the black eyes she'd been coming home with for weeks on end.

Diane and Sonja—who had both been rather hotheaded, which combined with their love for their sister was a dangerous trait—immediately used their meager resources to find out where the man lived. They found that he was married, with several small children.

The sisters' blood boiled at the blatant treachery the man was committing against his wife, as well as Gertie's murder. The girls had cornered the man in an alley one day and stabbed him to death, disappearing quietly into their home after the task was completed.

Diane and Sonja, who had never been treated decently by men in their lives—especially now—had vowed solemnly that no man would ever have their love or even approval. Men were despicable, not fit to live, and the sooner that the world realized that, the better. Before long, they rose from the work of prostitution to better jobs, and with that elevation came the study of various fighting styles and martial arts. They'd killed numerous men by that time, the most violent of their clients, but they'd always used weapons—now, they were capable of breaking a neck with just a sharp twist, taking out a knee with a single, strong kick, beating someone to death without breaking a sweat.

They made it their second job to trail various men, finding out their wrongs and killing them accordingly. They were joined by several other embittered women who shared their views, and before long they had a small following.

Sonja noticed that Diane had been less and less enthusiastic about the killing for months now, and one day secretly trailed her everywhere she went. When she found her sister meeting with a man, talking with him _civilly_ , kissing his foul mouth, she'd confronted her. It seemed that Diane had broken the most sacred rule of their organization and fallen in love. Sonja remorselessly killed her and her lover.

Continuing to rise to better and better jobs, Sonja took the opportunity to better educate herself, her ability to manipulate soaring above most, learning to speak English without a trace of accent, learning to carry out her operations without being caught. She'd arrived in the States after her twenty-third birthday, after she'd found out about her mother's euthanasia—authorized by a male doctor. He met a messy end.

She was followed by her disciples, and bounced from major city to major city—by day, beautiful, cheerful, and scarily smart Sonja Brewst, by night the coldly efficient Black Widow. She began targeting rich men as her main prey, as they could compensate for her time by a few manipulations—she persuaded them into believing that they were in love with her and vice versa, gaining a good deal of money in the process—but never dissuaded from the commoners, who deserved the punishment just as much.

She'd come a long way in ten years from the big-eyed, timid girl tricking for a living. Gotham City's underworld had welcomed her with open arms—she was a smart addition to the massive crime in circulation. She intended to stay here, picking off the richest men from the top and the scum of the earth from the bottom—of course, _all_ men were the scum of the earth. Occasionally, one was in her employ for the services they could provide, but they always met grisly demises at either her hands or the hands of one of her girls.

Alek Redgrove was no exception. She was planning on killing him, the first opportunity she got. His daughter was indeed spirited, strong, and had potential to be a follower—but it appeared that the despicable Bruce Wayne had reached her first. Anyone watching them—and she'd watched multiple times, from their amusing experience in the club to their stroll in the park weeks later, to earlier on that day, tracking them throughout the city to the hospital—could see that they were disgustingly in 'love'. Sonja no longer believed in the concept between man and woman. The man would just use the woman until he had what he wanted, and then drop her as if she were nothing.

She crossed her arms, staring out at the city from her position in the docking area. Her plan was coming through. Soon, Bruce Wayne would be dead, and Jenn Redgrove would soon follow, her punishment for being deceived by men. Sonja felt her fingers curl with anticipation… but first…

"Sonja?" She rolled her eyes. One of the girls—the only ones who were allowed to call her by name—had let her first name slip while in front of Alek. He couldn't understand why she disliked him calling her that, and continued in the annoying practice stoically—she'd let him have his fun. After all, he wouldn't be around for much longer.

"What do you want?" she asked sharply, not bothering to mask her irritation.

"What are you doing out here?" he wanted to know, strolling forward to stand beside her. Stupid man.

"Waiting. Thinking," she answered dismissively. "Alek, you do know that women are more intelligent than men, correct?"

He scoffed. "I suppose that would depend on your way of thinking," he said derisively.

"Mm. You see, men got the brawn, women, the brains. Hardly a fair deal, since women can manipulate the structures of their bodies to be just as strong as a man's, but men… well, you can't extend brain power. You see, we like to let men think that they're the monarchs of the world, where in reality, the women are ruling from the shadows."

"I disagree," he said coolly. "Emotion gets in the way of the female judgment. For example, a verdict with a male judge would always be the same, but with a female it might alter just because it's the wrong time of the month."

Sonja pushed her thumb down on her bent index finger, cracking it. It was easy not to grit her teeth—she'd just think about the fun she was about to have. "To each her own," she said with a shrug. "But your daughter is far smarter than you."

"How do you figure?" His tone was definitely hostile now. Her crimson lips turned upward into a smile. Obviously she'd touched a nerve. He hated his daughter almost as much as the girl despised him. Just another example of the male stupidity—he'd had a woman killed in order to gain possession of his heir, only when the child was received, he'd realized that he disliked her. So typical. She slipped her hand to her belt.

"Well, look at you. You're unarmed, have no bodyguards with you, persuaded by the honeyed words of a woman who hates men that it's safe alone with her and her followers. You should really give Jenn more credit, Alek—she wasn't just trying to scare you."

Alek realized what the woman was conveying, and he wasn't stupid. He ran for it. In an instant, Sonja was after him. Unfortunately for him, Jenn's words earlier had been correct—his days weren't spent in activity. He wasn't overweight, but he wasn't particularly strong, nor was he fast. Sonja was both.

As soon as she was close enough, she coiled and leapt, landing on his back. He gave a scream as her unsheathed knife dug into his shoulder, shattering bone, and stumbled, falling to the ground with Sonja on top of him.

Efficiently, she shifted to sit on his hips as he thrashed beneath her, trying to escape. With a crazed bliss on her face, she rested the tip against the upper left side of his suited back, slowly, agonizingly driving the knife into the flesh until in about thirty seconds it was up to the hilt. He gave another agonized scream throughout, and, a diabolical smile on her face, she bent low to speak into his ear.

"Squeal all you want, _Alek._ No one's here to save you."

She stabbed him several more times even after he stopped moving, several times severing his spinal cord. When she finally got up, she threw the dagger at him, examining her hands, which along with her pants and top were covered with blood. Shrugging carelessly, she wiped them on her pants, and then turned to lean against a storage unit, crossing her arms and staring at the moon.

* * *

"Oh..." Jenn said, upon seeing the familiar face of the man in whose house she'd been living, the man she loved, staring back at her. "This explains a lot."

Bruce almost smiled, but didn't, concentrating on holding her gaze. He could garner neither censure nor approval from her, leading him to believe that she was in a state of mild shock. Whether the time had been right or not, she knew now and there was no going back.

"This is good, right?" Apparently, she was rapidly emerging from the shock. "You're… wow, you're… holy crap." She ran her hands through her hair, unsure of what to say and hating herself for it. The truth was she didn't know what to think. Bruce was Batman, Batman was Bruce… holy crap just about summed it up. At least he wasn't in danger—or was he in worse trouble now that he was _two_ enemies of the Widow instead of just one?

"I want to talk about this," he said, voice lower than usual but still more natural than the Batman timbre, "but we can't right now. I have to take care of this before we can go. It's my job."

She nodded immediately. "Yeah," she said. "That's a good idea. Umm," she said, ransacking her mind for something, anything to help him as he replaced the cowl and straightened it, "the Widow's pretty easy to find—she has a red hourglass on her stomach. My father's here, too—he's in it with her, but I think she's going to kill him before this is all over. And I didn't see much, but it looked like all the others are women." He gave a nod, confirming this.

"I'll be back soon," he said, reassuming the Batman voice. "Stay low. Don't let anyone see you."

"Okay," she agreed. He then dropped through the skylight into the building again, leaving her with a mindful of thoughts.

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Once inside again, he worked quickly. The guards weren't sticking together, patrolling in different areas at different times, so it was easy to pick them off one by one—not without mishap. A few of them put up a good fight—one British woman called him a 'randy wanker' and actually got a shot off that barely missed his head before he managed to catch her across the head with a fist, knocking her to the floor. She didn't get up again.

He'd been shot at a few more times—most missed him, but one clipped his side and tore through his cape, granting him what he was sure would be another bruise and an annoyance for Lucius to deal with later. He put it from his mind.

He continued taking out the guards, growing increasingly impatient when he seemed to get no closer to the Widow. He caught the last guard on the first level, a terrified woman that couldn't have been more than twenty, and harshly demanded where her boss was. She managed to stutter that the Widow was outside, after which he painlessly knocked her unconscious.

Outside, he had to hunt a little longer before he found the Widow among the storage units, the body of Alek Redgrove a few feet away from her. She had her back to him, but her voice rang out through the night with imperturbable calm.

"Batman, is it? I'd assumed we might run into trouble on your end." She turned around, hands flexing as if they wanted nothing more than to wring his neck. "How on earth are you so well-informed?" she asked sardonically.

He didn't waste time with banter. He attacked, and she defended before twisting the attack around. She was very well-educated in martial arts, he noted, and if he'd been her size they'd have been evenly matched. As it was, he was a half-foot taller than she and far broader.

He caught the fist she sent at his face. She drove her knee up; he deflected with his own and punched her across the face. She stumbled backwards and caught hold of a crate lying nearby, bringing it up and flinging it at him. He battered it to the side with a gauntlet and attacked again.

* * *

Jenn decided that she might as well face it—on the roof of a condemned chemical plant, there aren't many places to hide. Currently she was behind a smokestack, leaning back against it and listening to the quiet chattering of the two women who had just arrived and praying that they'd leave soon.

"I don't see why this is necessary," complained Dani, transmitting her boredom through her voice.

"Am I going to have to repeat myself twenty times tonight?" hissed Erin. "Rhos saw something big and black where Tanya was supposed to be, and now they can't find her. Serenity said that we should just make sure everything's secure."

"Rhos is _always_ seeing things," said Dani skeptically. "And Tanya's always disappearing to shoot up somewhere. I don't see why now is different."

"I know, Dani," replied Erin, trying to be the more professional of the duo despite her agreement, "but we have to be certain everything's secure. If something out of the ordinary happens, even the _tiniest_ little thing, this plan could come crashing dow—" She stopped, brow wrinkling with sudden consternation as her eyes caught sight of an unnatural-looking bundle on the rooftop. "What's that?"

"What's _that?_ " Dani wanted to know, nodding towards the skylight. The two looked at each other and by mutual silent agreement each went to check out the individual irregularities.

Erin suppressed the shiver running down her spine as she approached the shape cautiously, drawing her gun. Her reservations disappeared when she recognized it to be the unconscious body of her vanished comrade. "Tanya?" she asked, dropping to her knees to roll the woman over. "Shit… Tanya, I keep telling you that that stuff is going to kill you some day," she said with a scowl, obviously peeved that she'd been alarmed for no reason.

Dani, on the other hand, moved cautiously to the skylight, eyes widening with alarm when she realized that the thick glass had been shattered almost impossibly. Skylights weren't all that easy to break, and she highly doubted that the prisoner below had been able to do it—so what had? Leaning over and peering down into the room, she was alarmed to see that said prisoner wasn't in the room, and that just below her, Chian was unconscious on the floor.

"Erin!" she yelled. "We have a _serious_ problem!"

Erin quickly ran over to her comrade's side, and looked down into the room, cussing fluently. "Chian was supposed to take care of the girl! What the hell happened?"

"Obviously, the _girl_ took care of _Chian_ ," said Dani, voice tense. "So now we have a big problem."

"No, _really_?" asked Erin, terse sarcasm heavy in her voice.

"Where's the _girl_?" demanded Dani, ignoring her partner's derision in the face of more urgent matters.

"If I knew, do you think I'd be standing here?" said Erin, voice partially raised, all vestiges of professionalism gone. "Sonja's going to _kill_ us."

"What? No way—not us! We're not the ones who screwed up here, Erin!" said Dani, voice rising with hysteria as she crossed the roof. "It isn't our fault that she escaped!"

"Have you ever heard of the Kill the Messenger policy?" Erin fired in return. Dani raked her hands through her hair, agitated.

"Screw that. I'm not sticking around to—what's that?" she said, cutting off her statement when she spotted the edge of Jenn's shadow, moving around the smokestack to elude her.

"What?" Erin demanded. Dani pulled out her gun again.

"I think we've just found the prisoner."

At those words, Jenn launched herself out at Dani, knocking her to the ground and unfortunately falling with her. Erin cussed and pulled her gun, running right up to them as Jenn struggled to her feet, Dani faring a bit worse since she'd taken the brunt of the fall. "Freeze!" she ordered.

Jenn stopped. For a second, her attention was occupied by the gun barrel, and then her eyes moved up to the pale face behind it. "Or what? You'll shoot?" she sneered, the expression looking unnatural on her face. "Sure. Go ahead. That ought to make your precious Widow _very happy_." She ducked away from the gun, reaching up with one hand to hit it away and then caught Erin across the head with her fist. Erin staggered, obviously not having expected that. Jenn paused for a split seconds to see the result of her handiwork—and was battered on the temple by Dani's gun butt.

"Okay, you little bitch," spat Dani, looking remorselessly on as Jenn staggered and lost her balance. " _One_ more wrong move and I'll show you that there are _plenty_ of ways we can shoot you that won't kill you."

Erin regained her balance and held a hand to her head, cussing fluently. "Nice job," she told Dani, before reaching down and roughly grabbing Jenn, hauling the dazed woman to her feet. Holding her steady, she spoke into her ear. "Try something like that again and I _will_ kill you, Widow or no," she threatened.

"Let's go," Dani said grimly. "I think Sonja would like to see this."

* * *

This fight was getting tiring. Not physically, as neither of them seemed to be lacking energy, but it had been going for five minutes without either of them achieving victory, though blood and bruises were frequent. What the Widow lacked in brute strength she made up for with her defense, lithely dodging punches and attacks in a way that made him realize why exactly the leather was molded so tightly to her skin. He was nimble enough, but the armor was a hindrance.

Realizing that the fight was going to drag on all night unless he brought it to a close, he unleashed, attacking with a speed and ferocity previously kept below the surface. She seemed a bit taken-aback by the sudden alteration, costing her a broken toe—perhaps several—and bloody nose, but quickly adapted.

Despite her best efforts, it was clear that she was losing. Her movements became more and more frantic and jerky. A few times, when she punched and missed, she screamed in hysterical fury, attacking even faster and even sloppier.

He was certain that the fight was his when he drove a fist into her ribcage, hearing one or two cracks that boded ill for her. She staggered back towards some barrels of unknown origin, holding up a hand as if asking for truce, her other hand resting on the two ribs that were now broken as she gasped for air. He paused, wondering if this was enough or if he should continue until she fell into unconsciousness, when the yell came.

"Widow!" Stepping to the side and turning, careful not to turn his back to the Widow, he felt the blood drain from his face when he saw three women walking in a line—the two on the edges waving guns crazily, using their free arms to support the one in the middle, who appeared wounded—the one he recognized as Jenn.

He quickly looked back at the Widow. Her expression had transformed into one of diabolical glee, the triumph in her expression just made creepier by the blood trickling down the corner of her mouth. "Looks like we've got company," she said, panting heavily.

"Sonja, what happened? Are you okay?" asked one of the two, and they came to a stop underneath one of the hanging lights that illuminated the storage section. She lifted a hand.

"I'm fine. Hold on to the girl, don't let her get away. If he moves towards you two, or me, shoot her."

"Not him?" asked the other. The Widow rolled her eyes.

"Look at what he's wearing, idiot."

Throughout this, Batman stood, forcing his mind to move from its stunned lethargy upon seeing Jenn. He had to come up with something quick or they'd both die. He turned back to Widow to see her grinning brutally, her teeth stained with her own blood.

"The tables have turned, Batman," she said almost merrily. "You _could_ get us all, I have no doubt, but one of us is going to be able to kill this sweet girl over here before you can reach us. How would you like that? The blood of innocents on your hands?" He felt his fingers tightening into fists at her smug tone, wishing he'd knocked her out when he had the chance. "So will you comply," she asked, strolling up as if she _wasn't_ sporting a pair of broken ribs, "or will you be responsible for the death of little Miss Jenn Redgrove over here?"

He searched his mind for any semblance of a plan. He could find none. He could quickly take out the Widow, but while he was doing so the two women holding Jenn captive would have ample time to follow orders. Attacking the captors would allow the Widow herself time to draw her gun and shoot Jenn, who apparently wasn't in any state to run. He stared intently at her lowered head, her form drooping between the two women supporting her. At that point in time, she looked up at him, her gaze surprisingly clear.

Then she winked and dropped her head again.

"Too proud to talk, are you?" sneered Widow. "Egotistical. Just like a man." Her fist shot out with surprising force, catching him across the chin. He didn't respond, swaying slightly, the pain eliminated with the new ray of light that had just shone onto the situation. He just had to wait for the opportune moment… his hand went unobtrusively to his belt, seeking out a batarang.

"Say something," ordered the Widow, teeth tightly gritted. "Admit your defeat!" He didn't respond, almost smirking at the thought of how much he was pissing her off. Juvenile, yes, but warranted.

"Bastard," she said, spitting on him. He was unfazed, and an idea lit her face. "I bet you wouldn't be so brave without this," she said, reaching up, fingers tracing the twin points of the cowl. "Bet you'd beg for mercy if you weren't hiding behind your mask."

Still nothing.

"You have three seconds to speak, or this—" she rapped on the top of the cowl "-is coming off." She waited, and he said nothing. "One. Two."

"Three," he finished for her, and dropped to sweep her legs out from under her. He was up before Jenn's guards could react, a batarang flying through the air with a flick of his wrist and lodging in the shoulder of the one on the left. She screamed, staggering back in agony.

Jenn reacted as he'd anticipated, launching herself at the remaining woman and taking her down, using her fists as the main weapons though she threw in a bit of elbow every now and then. Nowhere near satisfied that she was safe, but pleased at least to see that she was holding her own, he turned to find the Widow staggering towards him, her ribs obviously hindering her progress—but she was unwilling to just face defeat.

"You're going to _die!_ " she screamed, clawing at the exposed bottom half of his face with a blind rage. He reached down to grab one of her legs, the other hand latching on to her shoulder, and he lifted her shrieking form with relative ease, hurling her into the barrels nearby.

She impacted them, and rather than knocking against them and lying still, she actually broke through them at the halfway point—the metal was obviously weakened considerably by the contents within—causing them to spill translucent green nuclear waste everywhere—for the main part, though, she was immersed in the liquid. Batman turned away.

* * *

Jenn was pretty sure that Dani was unconscious, but added a few more punches for good measure. That punching bag really came in handy—and it turned out that beating Dani was very, very different from beating the bald thug from months ago. Baldy had been hard as a rock, made of muscle and bone and not much else. Dani was rounder, softer, and definitely easier on the knuckles.

Jenn quickly lifted herself to her feet, though she still felt a bit woozy. That gun hadn't hit her temple head on, like Dani and Erin had thought it had, true, but it had still clipped her and thrown her off-balance. It wasn't enough to keep her in that state of semi-unconsciousness, as they'd thought it had, but she'd faked it anyway—she figured she was screwed at that point in time no matter what and that it wouldn't hurt to have the element of surprise on her side.

Apparently, it had been a _very_ good idea. Had she been as out of it as the women had thought she was, one of them—very probably both—might have ended up dead. To say the least, that wouldn't have been good.

As soon as Bruce— _Batman_ , she mentally corrected herself, she needed to think of him as _Batman_ until he shed the persona again or she might let something slip—had incapacitated Erin, she'd shot towards Dani, knowing that he could take out the Widow—she repressed a smirk at the thought; _Sonja_ wasn't looking so good now. How ironic that a man had been the one to put her down.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a prostrate form that wasn't Erin and obviously wasn't Dani. She half-turned to look and fought the bile that rose in her throat when she realized that it was her father, his back a pulpy mess from knife wounds, his blood leaking onto the pavement around him. The Widow had obviously carried out on her promise. The only feelings she could summon were relief that his entire domain over her was at an end and a momentary sorrow that the man who fathered her couldn't have been more like her mother.

Recovering slightly from the grisly sight, she looked towards Batman. He was moving quickly towards her, either coming to check on the unconscious women or on her, when a movement just to the left of his shoulder caught her eye. "Batman!" she said, silently commending herself on remembering to call him by his alter-ego's name—it was odd, the things the mind came up with in moments of pressure. "Behind you!"

He turned to see the Widow staggering from the puddles of waste, her face contorted and twisted with fury, dripping with the stuff. Jenn quickly stepped to his side as the Widow pointed accusingly at them both.

"You!" she shrieked at Batman. " _You are going to pay!_ "

Before she could move any further, though, she dropped to her knees, shrieking. Jenn's eyes widened slightly—what was happening to her? The Widow clasped her own arms to her chest and fell directly on her face.

Jenn and Batman were still for a moment, and then he moved swiftly but not incautiously to check on the Widow. Jenn inched forward gingerly, an inquisitive expression on her face, and then he looked up at her.

"She's unconscious," he graveled, still using Batman's voice. "Must have been the waste." Handcuffs came from his belt and he locked the Widow's limp hands behind her back before rising and pulling Jenn away.

On their way, he paused to make sure that Erin wasn't as wounded as he'd first guessed. She was still writhing, the batarang in her shoulder but apparently doing no more damage, mumbling inaudible and incomprehensible vocabulary—until he leaned over her. When she saw him, her eyes widened, hatred twisted her face, and she mouthed two very distinctive words— _you bastard._

Jenn actually had the nerve to give a quiet giggle. He gave her a look that obviously said that this wasn't the time, but as she quickly sobered, she never caught the glint of ironic amusement in his eyes, hidden safely behind the lenses of the cowl.

They left the plant, the nearby police sirens promising that it would probably be cleared up before long. He led her to the Tumbler and the two started out for home.

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

The drive back to the manor was a silent one. Jenn was caught between a state of relief that it was all over and disbelief that Bruce was Batman and Batman was Bruce. She felt the urge to laugh hysterically. Could someone please tell her—at what point had her life become a soap opera?

She couldn't remember a time in which she'd been more badly scared in her life than the point in which he'd been powerless, able to take out all three women but unwilling to when her life was in jeopardy. That hadn't been a good thing. It had turned out all right, but what if something like that happened again?

Before long, they were in the Batcave. Jenn slid from the Tumbler as Bruce vaulted out, and she looked around in awe at the tremendous area around them. "Wow…" she said, seeing the roosting bats, the waterfall, stock of weapons. She turned around and eyed him. "Doesn't that get uncomfortable?" she inquired, pointing at the cowl, which he pulled off.

"Not really," he said, stripping off his gauntlets. "Since I'm doing this a lot, it can't be."

Listen to them. They were standing there talking casually about Bruce's alter-ego as if they were discussing the weather. Jenn once again felt the urge to start laughing, but refused to give in to it, as she knew she wouldn't be able to stop.

"Stay here," he cautioned, and disappeared somewhere into the cave. She decided to prowl around the Tumbler, examining the outside—she'd had plenty of time to study the inside, but the exterior just made her more amazed. She'd never seen anything like it before. It had the agility of a sports car combined with the sturdiness of a tank—Lauren would love to get her hands on it. She could crash into anything without consequences to the car.

"It's something, huh?" Bruce was back, and out of the Batman suit, in a normal t-shirt and chinos. She turned.

"All of it is," she said quietly. "And… to tell the truth, it's a big shock." Well, coherent speech was back. _Thank you, tongue._ "I mean, who would think? Bruce Wayne, irresponsible playboy extraordinaire—the town's legend."

"The rep's intentional."

"I figured," she said. "Things are clicking into place all over now. I mean, you've never been an ass to me—well, I take back that _never_ ," she said, and he gave a half-smile. "But to other people…" She shook her head. "And I know I see why." A few bats squeaked, setting off a chain reaction among their fellows, and she lifted her head to look at the roof of the cave. "Bats?"

"Yes. It's a long story."

"I don't think we're going anywhere." He gave her an odd look, and then nodded, agreeing.

"But we probably shouldn't stay down here. Come on," he said, gesturing, and she followed him with a hint of wariness—where was he taking her now?

He led her to an elevator, and upon reaching the top of the shaft, she was surprised when they stepped out from behind a cabinet, emerging in the library. "What the…?"

"The piano has a mechanism that triggers it," he pointed out, gesturing to the object in question. She nodded.

"Oh." 'Oh' was about all she could manage. That she'd been living over the infamous Batman's headquarters for the past month came as yet another shock. She'd been unaware of the caverns beneath the mansion.

He led her into the living room and basically sat her down, fingers probing at her face—for a moment, she was perplexed, and then she winced at a sharp pain in her temple when he pressed a little too hard reminded her of her injuries. "This might be a concussion," he said with a frown, tapping against it lightly, not hard enough to hurt again. She reached up and grabbed his hand.

"Don't you want to sleep when you've got a concussion or something?" she wanted to know. "I feel wide awake. The girl only clipped me."

"Still…"

"I don't think it's serious," she said. "I'm fine. Forget me for now. I'm more worried about you. I saw you get stabbed at least once, and it looked like you and _Sonja_ had been fighting for a pretty long time when we got there." She lifted her eyebrow in a silent question. He didn't remove his hand.

"The armor stops the knives. The Widow—Sonja —really didn't get any good hits in."

"The armor stops the knives, yeah, but didn't it hurt?"

"They leave bruises. I'll be fine. I've coped with worse."

She nodded, and as much as she wanted to stay there forever, leaning into his touch and relishing in the feel of being safe again, she pulled back. He brought his hand down, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "So… what are we going to do?" Jenn asked, her voice small in the silence. "I mean, there are too many ties to pretend that I was never there—the police wouldn't miss that much—and I have no clue as to what I'm supposed to do now."

"I thought it over on the way home," Bruce said carefully. "We tell the truth."

"What?!"

"Omitting the obvious, of course," he explained. "We call the police, filling them in on your kidnapping, telling them that Batman saved you and took you home at your request, and tell them that Bruce Wayne was too afraid that they'd hurt you to get them involved." She paused, thinking it over. It seemed too easy, but she soon realized that that was because it was all pretty simple.

"Okay," she said. "Let's do it."

* * *

Jim Gordon was a tallish, thin man, wearing a tan trenchcoat into which he'd pushed his hands to ward off the cold and extremely intelligent yet compassionate blue eyes hidden behind glasses. He stood facing Jenn and Bruce now with a grave expression on his face as police officers and Crime Scene Investigation examined the painted wall behind him.

"It's been a hell of a night," he said gruffly. "I'm glad you two called and saved us the effort of trying to completely piece everything that happened at Kelsey's plant together."

"Do you have the Widow in custody?" Jenn wanted to know.

"The Widow?" Gordon asked, one eyebrow lifting, and then comprehension struck and he nodded. "Oh, yeah. Our Jane Doe. We've got her. We're hoping to indict her on kidnapping charges, at least—but I have the feeling we'll be able to charge for multiple homicide, too." He paused. "Miss Redgrove—"

"Call me Jenn, _please_ ," Jenn appealed. He nodded.

"Jenn—I'm going to need to ask a few more questions." She nodded in acquiescence, glancing once at Bruce, who was standing beside her, his expression like stone. Now wasn't the time for the fop. "Were you aware of your father's involvement in this scheme?"

"Not completely… I mean," Jenn said, "I know he was teamed with the Widow for money or something—I talked to him some when I was at the plant—but I don't know the details."

"Do you know what's happened to him?"

"He's dead. I think the Widow killed him." Her face was grave. He nodded.

"Someone tipped the police off, telling us to look deeper into the financial ventures and wills of the murdered men these past few months." Jenn shot a quick, covert look at Bruce. He remained grim-faced. "There was no connection in the wills, except that all had been changed a week to a month before the man in question's death. Looking deeper into the businesses that got most of the wealth in what seemed just a charitable gesture for childless men, we saw that they were just covers. The woman you call the Widow we assume had been seducing the men and convincing them to change their wills so that she would get their money upon the event of their death—of course, she couldn't have herself named the recipient. That's where we assume your father came in. We think he created these small businesses as a façade, so that someone only doing some shallow digging wouldn't realize what was going on."

"So _that's_ what she needed him for." Jenn nodded. "That would work. He continued talking about his _project_ and going on and on about it—he had the money and resources to set up the 'companies'."

"Can you remember all that he said?" Gordon queried. Jenn considered.

"He never took me into his confidence," she admitted. "He didn't trust me enough. He _did_ think that Bruce would be useful, though—maybe he thought that Bruce could split the expenses with him." She shook her head. "Heaven knows why."

Gordon turned his attention to Bruce. "Did Alek Redgrove ever proposition you with regard to this?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. I only heard of it through Jenn."

Gordon looked at them both acutely. "How long have you been living at Wayne Manor, Jenn?"

Surprisingly, she didn't feel a blush rising. "About a month, I think. I moved in after my father and I had a fight."

"Was there anything in this fight that might have been relevant to the situation at hand?"

"It was over some of my dad's… criminal ventures in the past," Jenn said, her jaw setting itself grimly. He lifted an eyebrow, and she nodded. "No one knows this but me, but when I was eight, my parents had a quarrel over custody of me. It's a long story—I'll probably end up giving you the long version later—but he confessed later to me (quite accidentally) that he had her murdered, which resulted in him gaining custody. The day we fought was the day I found out."

Gordon seemed slightly overwhelmed. "Well, Jenn, that's very… enlightening. We'll certainly look into it." Jenn nodded.

* * *

Gordon left soon afterwards with the caution that they'd probably both be called to the station the next day in order to answer some more questions and possible identification of the women arrested. The rest of the police left soon afterwards after stretching yellow crime scene tape around the wall and telling them not to disturb it. In time, they found themselves in the library, Bruce perusing some books, Jenn sitting down, arms crossed as she leaned back and watched him. He knew she wanted to say something, but didn't push it, just pretending to be interested in what he was doing, waiting for her to speak up. Finally…

"Bruce." He glanced at her. "Why?" She waved her hand around the house. "Why jeopardize your comfort in order to do what you do?"

He told her. Over the next hour, he told her the complete story—his childhood fall into the well, his parents' murder, his years spent skipping from one school to another, his return to Gotham for the hearing of Joe Chill. He told her, straightforwardly, about his plan to kill the man who had killed his parents, and the opportunity being snatched from his hands by Carmine Falcone. He told her of Rachel Dawes' fierce tongue-lashing, his confrontation of the crime boss himself, and then his disappearance, stowing away on a ship in his determination to understand criminals.

He detailed his weeks on the ship, the coarsening of his rich-boy's palms with hard work that also gave him new muscles and endurance, being beaten senseless time and time again by the bored shipmates who regarded using him as their personal punching bag as amusement. He told her of being taught to fight dirty by the one of the bosuns, Hector.

He went briefly into the desperation of being unable to buy food, of starving slowly until he'd had to steal food to survive. He told of a joint criminal venture he'd entered into and had been caught in, sent to a Chinese prison, where the inmates regarded him as an enemy. Enemies died. He'd only been there a few days, fighting at least once every day, when confronted by the mysterious Henri Ducard.

He didn't go into the specifics of his training with the League of Shadows, as that would take days to go through thoroughly. He wound down with his return to Gotham, explaining the procedures used to bring down Carmine Falcone and the defeat of Rā's al Ghūl.

Throughout it all, Jenn was silent, eyes fixed on his face with the utmost attention as she watched and listened. When he finished, she leaned back, putting a hand to her head briefly.

"Bruce, that's… wow," she said, at a loss for words. "That's… amazing. No one ever in the waking world has done what you have."

"I'm not doing it for fame."

"I know," she said with a nod. "I think Bruce Wayne has enough to tide you over for the next few lifetimes." He allowed a smile. "To do something like that, every night… must be amazing."

"It's usually very… gratifying," he admitted. "But it isn't always easy. There are kids out there, Jenn, kids that are only maybe ten or eleven, already sucked into the world of crime." She nodded somberly, obviously aware of this. "And sometimes, there's despair. You think, am I ever going to make a difference?"

"You are," she said confidently, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "The criminals are already scared shitless of you." He gave a brief laugh at her interesting terminology.

"Some maybe," he admitted, "but not enough. There will always be crime. I'm just trying to cut it down to the normal rate. Maybe then, this will all be over. But maybe not. Maybe if Batman disappears from the streets, the criminals will reappear. It'll transform like it did before."

"There's no way of knowing for sure," she said quietly. He nodded, and then looked around, eyes falling on the clock.

"It's getting late."

"Yeah," she said regretfully. "We should probably head for bed."

"It's been a tiring night," he said, standing and offering his hand. She took it and he pulled her up, and they stood there for a moment, both enjoying and feeling a bit discomfited by the close proximity, before Jenn pulled away.

"Thanks," she said, sounding distracted. "You coming?"

"No…" he said, brushing a hand through his hair. "I've got some thinking to do."

She gave a half-smile, weakened by her weariness, and kissed him goodnight on the cheek. She was forced to wonder on the way to her room which would win out—her physical exhaustion or her mind's wired activity, which was already forcing her to go through things she didn't want to think about.

* * *

The next morning, the red tape took hours to even clear a space in. Not only were there forms to fill out regarding the information she'd imparted to Gordon, there was more questioning to undergo.

Bruce was finished before she was, because it also appeared that there was a further twist—Alek, being the untrusting soul that he was, hadn't changed his will. She'd been named as pretty much the sole heir to all that he owned, despite his hatred of her—he'd obviously either figured he'd live a lot longer than he had or hadn't been able to find someone he liked more than her. He'd never had many real friends. She told Bruce not to wait for her, since it would take hours to go through the legal tangles.

By the time she headed back to the manor in the afternoon, she was physically exhausted, but knew that she had at least one more battle to fight, a battle she'd resolved to struggle through last night, and was resigned to it. She was surprised upon entering the house to find Alfred in the kitchen, peeling potatoes as if he'd never left. She'd squealed—actually squealed; she hadn't known she was capable of making such a noise—and almost knocked him over in a hug, endangering them both of death by potato peeler.

"Alfred! When did you get home?"

"Not two hours ago, Miss. I was feeling much, much better and the nurses were clamoring to get rid of me."

"Ha, I bet you had to charm them into letting you go," Jenn grinned. "So you're up to par?"

"Back to normal, Miss."

"Good. In that case, would you mind making me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? I'm starving." At his skeptical look, she held up her hands, laughing. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding! I just grabbed a late lunch; I'm full." She lowered her hands at his smile and glanced around, the levity slowly evaporating. "Where's Bruce?"

"In the study, I believe," said Alfred. She nodded, gave him another hug, and then went to seek out Bruce, steeling her spine for the war to come.

She knocked, hearing him bid her to come in, and pushed the door open. He was cross-legged on the floor, barefooted and reading, and looked up at her arrival. "Hey."

"Hey," she greeted him, closing the door behind her and crossing further into the room.

"How'd it go?" She drew in a breath, debating on how best to answer.

"Well enough, I guess," she said with a shrug. "Legalities. They get old after a while." He grinned slightly, shutting his book and getting up. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other, trying to avoid the subject for as long as she could. "What're you reading?"

He glanced at the hardback. "Oscar Wilde."

"For pleasure?"

"Is that surprising?"

"Not particularly. You're one of the rare guys who'll read for enjoyment."

"Glad to see you've comprehended me, Miss Redgrove," he said in a pompous tone, making her laugh. For a moment, he surveyed her. "What's wrong?"

That took her by surprise. "W-what do you mean, what's wrong?" she stammered. He lifted an eyebrow, and she sighed. "Is it that obvious?" she said painfully. He nodded, crossing his arms and waiting. She bit her lip and crossed the thick carpet to the window. "I've been thinking."

"Not in itself unusual, though it's very good to hear."

"Bruce, shut up," she said, a smile pulling at her mouth and creeping into her tone despite herself. He grinned, but it faded.

"I mean it, Jenn. What's up?"

"You and me," she said, deciding to get straight to the point. "We can't be together." He didn't seem to have been expecting this. He stood, not moving a muscle, face impassive as he stared at her. She turned to face him, mirroring his pose except for her cocked hip and pained eyes. "It's too risky. I mean, Dad's gone, that subtracts one of the problems, but Batman's now in the picture and that adds two."

"So you're going to go," he said, voice low. She sensed danger on the horizon.

"Bruce, please," she pleaded. "Don't make this harder than it's already going to be. I _have_ to. You _can't_ have a liability like me on your tail all the time. You saw what happened with the Widow last night. What if I'd been unconscious? What would you have done then? Would you have let me die so that justice could be served, or would you have been stupid and died first, and _then_ after you were dead, they'd have killed me?"

"I'd have figured something out," he said stonily, obviously fighting anger. This was _not_ the way this was supposed to be.

"Maybe so," she said, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. "Maybe so, but what if it happens again? What if some psycho figures out who you are and decides to use me to get to you? If we're together, every day you could die because of me and I _refuse_ to let that happen."

"So either I stop with the entire Batman thing, or you go?" he asked, keeping his voice level. This made her snap, and she threw up her hands.

"You _can't_ stop with the entire Batman thing!" she cried. "It's inevitable! I'm not asking you to try and change your destiny. I'm saying that because of the path determined for you, we can't be together."

"I believe that a man has the right to choose his own destiny," he said, voice rising slightly.

"Yeah, well, you're wrong about that, Bruce," she said, her own voice rising as she injected a bit of maddening factuality into her tone. She wanted to make him hate her, wanted to lessen the pain for both of them when they finally faced the inevitable. "You're _wrong._ You're destined to be Batman, just as we were destined to _not_ be together."

"That's bullshit!" he yelled, finally losing control. This proved to be a slightly frightening experience for Jenn. She'd never seen him lose his temper like this before, and while she never believed in a dozen lifetimes that he'd do _anything_ to harm her, was worried that he might start throwing some of the statues or vases in the room and hurt himself.

"Keep your voice down," she said, hating the iciness of her tone. He glared at her. "Alfred just got back from the hospital. We don't want to send him right back from a heart attack or aneurism or something."

"You _know_ you're talking shit! Why do you make this so hard?"

"Because it's impossible!" she shouted, forgetting the words she'd uttered seconds before. "Who says we'd work anyway? Even if we were two completely normal people, who says we'd be happy? Who says it would last?"

"What if I do?"

"As one of the parties involved, excuse me if I don't find your word creditable at the time," she said, continuing with the smart-aleck approach. Maybe it would make him despise her enough that he'd quit arguing and just let her go.

He ran both hands through his hair, turning away and taking a few steps, and then turned back. "You know what I think?"

"Bruce, don't," she warned.

"I think you're scared," he challenged. She gave him a look that matched her tone, crossing her arms beneath her chest. He nodded, pointing at her. "You're scared that this will be too much for you to handle. You're scared of loving me—you can admit it. I won't get mad."

"Okay, fine, if that's what you want to hear—fine! I'm scared to death that I'm going to get kidnapped by some freak and mutilated to death!" The sarcasm in her tone was heavy, but she doubted he'd pick it up in his current state. She hoped he didn't. She wanted him to hate her. "And for your information, _you're already mad!_ "

It had erupted into a full-blown shouting match. Jenn was unsure of why Alfred hadn't come in to haul them to separate corners yet—no, she knew why. Alfred knew that this argument had to be had.

"Oh, I'm sorry I'm angry," said Bruce, dropping into stinging sarcasm. "I'm sorry—the woman I love and who I _thought_ loved me just told me that she's _leaving._ I really have _no right_ to be angry."

"That's right," she snapped, feeling her eyes heat up as her range of emotions combined. "You don't, because it's my decision to make. You _can't_ stop this, Bruce, you—"

And at that moment, he launched across the room, seized her face, and crashed his mouth to hers.

It was an angry kiss, and barely knowing what she was doing she gladly parted her mouth, eager to have a chance to battle it out with him. She pushed away her mind's frantic warnings that this would only complicate things further, that this _couldn't_ end well, reaching up to grab Bruce's arms and tightening her grip on them, digging her fingers in, willing him to sense her anger and see things her way. Their tongues fought fiercely as their bodies pressed close, each unwilling to break away.

Then, suddenly, it softened. His grip on her face loosened to where, instead of holding her forcibly still—as if she'd pull away, hah—he was just holding it, and her hands loosened on his arms, sliding down to grip his waist and pull herself even closer. _Is this goodbye?_ she found herself wondering, unwilling to pull back and face reality again. It didn't bother her that they'd been fighting seconds ago, that at any second Alfred might be coming to the door—she had to have this last moment before departing from Bruce Wayne's life.

All good things must come to an end. She finally summoned the willpower to break away—how she found the strength, she had no idea—and even then it was just a turning of her head, a breaking of the kiss—she was still unwilling to pull completely from their intimate positions. Bruce didn't pull back, resting his forehead on the side of her head, the bridge of his nose pressed against the side of her face.

"Stay," he whispered, pleading, after a moment. Her heart shattered with that single word, if it hadn't already been broken. How could she leave this man? Everyone in his life, save for faithful Alfred, had left him—how could she do him such a cruelty? But how could she not, putting him in perilous danger?

She felt the coolness of the tempered air on her face and became aware that she was silently crying. She didn't want to go. She hated herself for it. She released his waist, reaching a hand up to rub at her nose. Without a word, she extracted herself forcibly from his grasp.

She crossed the room to the door, when his voice sounded out behind her, torn and hoarse. "Jenn— _don't go_ ," he implored. "I love you."

She didn't turn, one hand on the knob, head turned downward as a tear dripped off the edge of her nose, falling and shattering on her hand, followed rapidly by more. "I love you, too," she whispered, unsure of whether he could hear or not. "That's why I have to go." Then, she opened the door and was gone.

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

On August 9th, Jennifer Redgrove and Bruce Wayne had met one another for the first time.

On November 4th, after her father's funeral, letting the police know in case they needed to contact her for the trial of Sonja and her girls, and sorting some things out with her friend Ryan, Jenn left Gotham City, taking her father's—now her—private jet to England to reunite with the Maltons—not her biological family, but her family in every other way.

Alfred had been the biggest assistance. She could tell that he wasn't happy about her leaving, but he seemed to sense that she'd already been given enough trouble. Bruce disappeared in a manner uncharacteristic of him after the tempestuous argument that had shaken the house, and Jenn was not to see him again before she boarded the plane to go to England. She'd convinced herself that it was better that way. She'd also convinced herself that it had been allergies that had caused her eyes to shed tears the entire sum of hours it took to get to England, despite the fact that she'd never been proclaimed allergic to anything in her life, except for poison ivy. Must have been a lot of poison ivy on that jet.

Back in Gotham, Bruce re-emerged the day after she'd left, but in ways was more withdrawn than ever. He threw everything into his work as Batman, starting as soon as dark touched the skies and stopping only when sunrise threatened to endanger his entire fear-based operation, sleeping most of the day. When interrogated as to why by Alfred, he gave a bitter laugh and said that apparently, it was his 'destiny'.

Jenn, on the other hand, was welcomed with open arms by the Maltons, who were delighted to see the 'prodigal daughter' return. Despite her putting on a happy face for them, Lauren at least noticed that something was wrong, and after numerous attempts and numerous failures at trying to pry something out of her friend, she was dissatisfied.

Lauren Malton was a single-minded individual, so this problem tormented her whenever her mind happened to be free of anything engaging. Jenn had always talked to her. They shared their deepest secrets, never revealing them to anyone else as a rule. They _never_ kept things from each other.

So, when Lauren, after two weeks of trying, failed to get anything from Jenn, she decided to take things into her own hands.

* * *

"Hey, Al!" Lauren greeted the butler cheerfully when he answered the phone at the manor, leaning back in her swivel chair and propping her legs on her desk. "Wonderful to talk to you again, mate!"

"Likewise, I'm sure, Miss Malton," he said, probably recognizing her by the nickname she gave him.

"Look, sorry to bother you but I really, really need to talk to Wayne," she said, studying her nails. Hmm. The index fingernail of her left hand was painted dark blue, while the rest were white. What had happened _there_? She tried to remember.

"Miss Malton, I'm not sure that's a wonderful idea," said Alfred, sounding vague… wasn't it illegal for butlers to be indistinct or something? No, wait, that was what they were paid for. Hence the saying 'the butler did it'. Lauren wondered if Alfred had ever been accused of murder, and almost asked him before she remembered that there were more important things at hand.

"It's a spiffy idea. I _really_ need to talk to him. It has to do with Jenn. You know I'm not trying to hustle him into an interview; it's me!" She tactfully refrained from pointing out that she'd never even spoken to Wayne before, just knew _of_ him from Jenn. Aha! She remembered why her fingernail was blue! It was to remind her to get the last poke on Josh in their poke war! She felt a momentary surge of triumph.

"He's asleep at the moment," said Alfred, and she could tell he was leaning on her side at the mention of Jenn. She just had to embellish a little bit more…

"Please, Alfred, it's life or death. Please, wake him up." She called him 'Alfred' instead of 'Al', hoping that it would sweeten him somewhat—he sounded like the type that didn't really enjoy nicknames, part of why she called him Al. Plus, Al was easier to say.

"If you say so, Miss Malton." She could have sworn she heard him chuckle as he strode away. She decided he must have seen something amusing on the telly—either that or he had her figured out completely, but she doubted that. Jenn had known her for eight years and had yet to fully figure her out. That was the way Lauren liked it.

On the other end of the phone, in Gotham, Alfred strode upstairs. Bruce had only gone to bed a few hours ago—this would _not_ make him happy, but it was obviously something he needed to hear. He needed a wake-up call, and perhaps Miss Lauren Malton was the one to do it—if it saved Alfred from having to, he was all for it. It seemed ridiculous, true, but Bruce was capable of sulking like a child on certain issues.

"Master Bruce," he said, pulling open the curtains and allowing the dim gray light to spill into the dark room—not that there was much of it, since they'd had a heavy snowfall the evening before. Bruce grunted, obviously displeased, and rolled over, stuffing his head beneath the pillow.

"Go _away_ ," he groaned.

"Master Bruce, there's a young lady on the phone—a Miss Lauren Malton."

"She can call back," said Bruce, his words muffled almost to the point of being incomprehensible with his face down into the mattress.

"Apparently, it has to do with Miss Redgrove. Miss Malton claims that it is a matter of life and death."

 _That_ got Bruce's attention, as Alfred had known it would. He rose from the bed in an instant, eyes slightly hazy with sleep but swiftly becoming alert. "You sure?"

"Master Bruce, would I lie?" Bruce scrutinized him.

"No. I'm not so sure about Lauren, though." Alfred hid a smile—Bruce was quite intelligent, after all, and would have figured it out sooner or later.

"Might I suggest that you take this call, sir?" he asked. "I don't believe a refusal to talk to her will dissuade her much."

"Yeah," said Bruce after a moment, a spark alight in his eyes that Alfred hadn't seen in weeks. "I probably should. Line two?"

"Yes, sir." Bruce nodded and got up, picking up the phone that lay on a stand along the wall, and Alfred unobtrusively exited as Bruce put the set to his ear.

" _I like crocodiles and they like me, we eat cucumbers and… um… live in harmony,"_ he heard a strange, female British voice singing tunelessly, the song obviously being her own invention. His brow creased momentarily, wondering what exactly he'd taken on.

"Hello?" he said as she began another verse of her crocodile song.

"- _and pickles and_ —huh? Oh, hey, is this Wayne?"

"Yes, this is Bruce Wayne."

"Geez, took long enough for you to pick up. I was here singing about crocodiles and cucumbers, for heaven's sake—I'm sure you heard. You sound like you just woke up."

"That's because I did," he said, allowing irritation to creep into his tone to let her know that she was wasting valuable sleeping time. It appeared to go right over her head.

"Oh. Have you had breakfast?"

"No, I have not, because I'm standing here waiting for you to tell me about this life-or-death situation you claimed was going on."

" _Oh_! That!" The bolt of clarity seemed to hit her, and her tone turned businesslike. "Look, Wayne, life's a living hell over here since Jenn got back. It's not the girl herself—heaven knows I love her to death—but she's always moping around and I can't get a _word_ out of her as to why. I was hoping you could help me out."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I can't assist you with that anymore. Jenn's sworn me off," he said, ignoring the ache in his chest as best he could.

"Oh, is that _so?_ " asked Lauren, suddenly sounding dangerous. "Look, Bruce," she said, saying his first name in reference to him for probably the first time in her life, "I don't know what kind of screwed-up lover's quarrel you two had, but I'd advise you both to get over it. You're obviously lusting madly for one another and being apart isn't exactly helping that, is it?"

"I really don't see that it's any business of yours."

"You don't see what—the hell, you don't. Okay, Bruce, here it is: Jenn loves you crazy. I mean, every time I see her she's thinking about you. She can't focus on anything else. If you drove her away, you'd better damn well take her back before I come out there and kick your ass, because it's driving me mad."

Bruce had to actually restrain a smile for the first time in weeks. The thought of this Englishwoman, probably as small as if not smaller than Jenn, kicking his ass was laughable. However, her words had caught him attention. "What do you mean, she loves me crazy?"

"It's kind of obvious. And I've heard her while she's dreaming. She says your name in her sleep, you know," she said confidentially.

" _Really?_ " he asked, undeniably interested in this bit of information.

"Yeah. And since we share a room, it's kind of hard when she goes to sleep before me, because within minutes, it's all 'Bruce, Bruce' and I have to bury my head in my pillow to block her out." Bruce lifted an eyebrow. "It gets annoying. So are you coming or not?"

"Wait, let me get this straight. She hasn't talked to you about it?"

"Correct. She refuses."

"So you want me to come across an ocean to confront your best friend that you suspect loves me on a hunch?" Lauren paused.

"Pretty much, yeah." It was Bruce's turn to pause. This was quite possibly the most harebrained idea he'd ever heard, concocted by the craziest person he'd ever met. However, the desire to see Jenn again coupled with the hope that maybe she cared more for him than he thought made a strong impulse rise in him.

"Okay," he said into the phone, almost before he knew what was happening. "I'll be there tomorrow."

"Excellent," said Lauren as she heard him hang up, replacing her own handset, rubbing her hands together, and giving her best fiendish laugh. It was a good evil laugh, and it had _better_ be, since she'd been working on perfecting it since she was ten. Needless to say, she used it a lot.

* * *

"Hmm? I'm sorry, I kind of spaced out again," Jenn said absently, returning her attention to Lauren. The blonde rolled her eyes—the four friends were in a booth in England, currently out for a late-afternoon snack on the way home from the cinema and safe inside from the freezing snowstorm waging war on the landscape outside.

"For goodness' sake, am I the _only_ one at the table currently anchored to _earth_?" Lauren's boyfriend, Josh, who currently had his arm around her, raised his hand.

"I'm right here with you, luv," he said. Lauren smirked.

"Well, I know _that_ ," she said. "You're my anchor here, 'cause you weigh a ton." That was a blatant lie. Josh was very, very wiry and probably half Bruce's weight, Jenn mused, and then mentally slapped herself on the head. There she went again, for the millionth time in as many seconds.

"What about our last party member?" Lauren wanted to know, directing her gaze to a dark-eyed brunette with small, silver-framed glasses who was staring into space.

Sarah Gracechurch continued staring off. "I will in a second," she said absently. Lauren got an evil look on her face.

"Sarah, you're a complete nymphomaniac, right?"

There were a few second's silence, and then came Sarah's typical delayed reaction. "Mm-hmm." It couldn't have been more obvious that her mind was a thousand miles away. And then, just like that, she snapped to reality. "I'm sorry—what just happened?" she wanted to know, having genuinely not heard a word of the conversation.

"Oh, nothing—we were just discussing the various mating habits of—"

"Snails," Jenn supplied hurriedly, worried that Lauren might actually mention _her_ in that context. Lauren gave her a wicked look, obviously guessing what she was thinking. Sarah made a face.

"Ugh," she said. "I'm glad I was out of it at that time."

Sarah, like most people that Jenn and Lauren kept company with, was an unusual individual. She was a talented writer, whose works were already being published in magazines, and her first book—a fiction fantasy thriller—was almost ready to be published. With this gift, however, came certain drawbacks—at least, some people would view them as drawbacks. Sarah, Lauren, and Jenn just saw it as a person being unique in her own way.

Sarah lived in a dream world. It was as if the most catastrophic thing could happen to her, and she would be completely relaxed, because she saw everything as a story, as if it wasn't really real. She would just calculate what a good writer would do with the cataclysm and live her life accordingly. She spoke in a more refined way than those around her, like someone would write. She also went out of it very, very often, completely tuning out to everything around her as her imagination ran rampant. To ask her what she was thinking about on such an occasion was either an act of great bravery or an act of great foolishness.

Which was, of course, why Lauren asked her what she had been thinking about. Sarah blinked her expressive brown eyes, reaching forward to grab her drink and sip it. "My thoughts were occupied by Jenn's little mystery," she said, lifting an eyebrow at the mentioned girl, who shifted uncomfortably. "I was trying to decide whether she was caught in a highly intricate and fatal love triangle, or whether she found out a deadly secret about this Bruce Wayne that refused to let them coexist in harmony."

Jenn forced a laugh. _Oh, Sarah, you don't know how close to the truth you are with that secret theory._ "Sarah, not everything can be a fantasy story."

Sarah's lifted eyebrow arched higher as she set her cup down, reaching for her omnipresent notebook and pen in which she recorded all the ideas she came upon during the course of the day, when she was far from a computer. "Why not?" she wanted to know. "What do you think existence is if not a tremendous play put on for God's amusement?"

"I'm not sure how on-track you are with that theory…" said Josh, playing with a Zippo lighter with his free hand.

"But it's an interesting worldview," put in Lauren, quite comfortable with her boyfriend's arm around her.

"Our lives aren't going to be a big adventure movie," Jenn said, insisting on being the realist in all this. "We're going to work, marry, have children, grow old, and die." This caused the table's other three inhabitants to blink at her in surprise.

"Wow. Look who turned the pessimist," said Josh shrewdly, eyeing Jenn. She shot him an annoyed glance.

"No, he's right," Lauren said. "This is pretty dark for you. Are you _sure_ you don't want to tell us what's going on?"

"Geez, Lauren, for the last time, yes! Can we stop the Spanish Inquisition for maybe a week?"

" _No se_ ," Lauren said, pulling up her Spanish classes, and Jenn rolled her eyes.

"Deep, dark secret," murmured Sarah knowledgably to herself, nodding and scribbling something down on her notebook. The others gave her various looks but she didn't notice.

"Well, that's not how _my_ life is going to play out," said Lauren comfortably. "I'm going to be an Indiana Jones, except I'll be a girl and my name will be Georgia. Georgia Jones—has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Yep," said Josh. "But you'll have to marry me to achieve legal 'Jones' status unless you have enough money to buy off some court officials and stuff." His last name was Jones, obviously, and Lauren looked at him calculatingly.

"Would you come with me?"

"Yep. I'd even change my name to Indiana, if you want."

"Fabulous," she said contentedly. "Yeah, I guess I'll marry you for the name Jones. It's worth it."

Jenn couldn't help but laugh at the two as they kissed, despite the flare of heartache that showed up whenever she saw couples together. She found herself pathetic, unable to watch two people so much as holding hands without getting quiet and trying to fight off the pain in her chest. Still, if Lauren wanted someone to match her randomness, Josh would be just the one—except he was a bit more grounded.

"AHA!" said Sarah from out of nowhere. "The red bug is a _distraction_ —awesome." The other three just went on about their business. Sarah was prone to those outbursts—she wasn't grabbing for attention, but sometimes her ideas would come so rapidly that she had to say some of them aloud to test their rationality.

Jenn sighed and nibbled at her thumbnail, a nervous habit she'd picked up from Lauren. She was a bit taken aback and considerably startled when the girl in question shot a hand across the table, grabbing her wrist. Jenn looked at her like she was crazy. "Are you crazy?"

"No, just insulted," replied Lauren, sounding offended. Jenn lifted an eyebrow, demanding clarification, and Lauren turned her friend's fingernails toward her. "Do you see these?"

Jenn's eyes ran along the French-manicured nails and lifted her eyes to Lauren's face. "Yes," she said, still not quite getting it.

"These are _perfect_ and I _just_ did them for you last night. If you start ripping off the polish before you've even had them done for twenty-four hours, well, I'm just going to have to beat you over the head with a loaf of bread."

"Squishy if white, spongy if brown," Sarah imparted, describing the loaf of bread.

"I agree with Sarah," Josh said, raising his hand.

"Why is it so important?" Jenn asked, giving her friend an odd look. Lauren immediately let go, and Jenn noticed her shifty eyes.

"Because I spent so long on it," she said evasively.

"Yeah, but you also did my hair today," said Jenn, blowing at the strands in question that were brushing against her face, the ones too short to go into the braided bun at the back of her head. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. I just don't want to be seen in public with you looking bad," said Lauren.

"It's time to go," said Sarah vaguely, and Lauren blessed her friend's ambiguity for saving her from a tight spot. Lauren was a good liar most of the time—more of a vice than a talent, as Jenn insisted on reminding her—but she was so excited at the time that she couldn't seem to muster her talents.

The four friends got up and loaded into Lauren's car, headed the twenty miles to the Malton home. Josh and Lauren filled up the time by an extremely random conversation that had to do with the differences between alligators and crocodiles (Lauren was of the opinion that crocodiles had magic and alligators didn't, while Josh went with the more conventional longer-snout teeth-sticking-out difference conjecture) and Jenn and Sarah stared out their consecutive widows.

About halfway there, when they were coming out of the city and in the more rural district, Jenn became aware that Sarah was staring at her, and she turned her head to look curiously at her friend.

"What?" she asked, smiling slightly. Sarah shrugged.

"You _do_ know that there's still an opportunity for a happy ending, right?" Jenn lifted an eyebrow.

"Hmm?"

"You and Wayne. You can still have a happy ending." Jenn sighed and shook her head.

"Thanks for the encouragement, Sarah—but we can't. We've been over it." Sarah gave one of mysterious smiles that made Jenn wonder if she didn't have all the secrets of the world figured out.

"Does he love you?"

"Yes. He said so." Jenn's heart gave a painful wrench at the reminder of her last day there.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

"Then wait. You'll see." Sarah turned her head away, signifying that the conversation was over, and Jenn shook her head in bemusement.

They reached the Malton home—a large house befitting the large family, set out in the countryside of England. Normally, several horses roamed the acreage that the family owned—now they were warm in their stalls—and despite the cold, a few dogs ran barking down the gravel drive at Lauren's car as it pulled in. Lauren had teasingly (or perhaps she was serious—who knew?) said that Jenn needed to buy them all new cars, since she was a billionaire now. Jenn replied that she hadn't seen a penny of the money, as she'd left the legal issues in a tangle back and Gotham and was putting off returning to sort everything out and get it all in order.

"Mum!" bellowed Lauren when they got inside, ignoring Teddy and Max chasing one another around. "We're home!"

"In the kitchen, Laurie!" called Hannah. Josh slung an arm around Jenn.

"Jenn, luv, help me out here," he said. "Tell Lauren that crocodiles _do not have magic._ "

"They do too!" protested Lauren. Jenn sighed as they trooped towards the kitchen.

"Lauren, no living animals have magic— _no_ ," she said, as Lauren opened her mouth to protest, "not even ligers. Movies don't count as science textbooks." Lauren scowled.

"Finally, someone shut her up!" said Josh, gazing adoringly at Jenn. "You're my hero," he said, kissing her on the cheek and giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze as they went through the kitchen door. She laughed as he pulled away, but her smile faded into a look of confusion when she saw who was at the kitchen table.

Bruce Wayne was sitting there, a purring tabby kitten looking particularly small held in one tightly muscled arm—obviously deposited there by Holly, who was sitting next to him and looked at him with adoring eyes as they signed back and forth—and attempting to keep up the sign-language conversation with Holly and a vocal one with Hannah, who was preparing supper. He looked up, grinning at something Holly had signed, and his smile, too, melted from his face when he saw Jenn.

Josh quickly removed his arm from around his friend. Wayne was a big guy, and not in the fat way. Josh wasn't going to risk getting sucker-punched by someone like Bruce Wayne, and the way Wayne was looking at him now, it seemed likely.

Lauren seemed completely unconcerned that Bruce Wayne was in her kitchen. "Hey, Mum, what's for dinner?" she wanted to know, as Bruce slipped the kitten into Holly's eager little hands and signed something to her with a smile before she scampered off, and he stood.

"Roast, luv, but it won't be ready for an hour." Hannah sent a kindly smile in Bruce's direction. "You will stay for dinner, won't you, Bruce?"

"That sounds great," said Bruce with an honest smile.

"Geez, Wayne, what took you?" inquired Lauren after that crucial matter of business was taken care of, stalking over to the six-foot-two man with her slender five-foot-four frame and poking him in the chest as if she could take him any day, looking particularly fragile next to him and forcing Sarah to stifle a laugh.

"Sorry. I wasn't able to get away till now."

"Oh. Well, you're here, that's the important thing," said Lauren, and despite the fact that she'd never met him face to face, hugged him tightly. "Hey, guess what?" she asked when she pulled away.

"What?"

"You _are_ taller than you look in the tabloids. I didn't believe Jenn."

At the mention of Jenn, they both turned their heads to look at her. She still appeared in a state of shock, and the small blonde gave a fiendish laugh. "I suppose you two want to talk," said Lauren innocently.

"Umm," said Jenn, looking around frantically for help. Josh just held up his hands as if to say _you're on your own here; have you seen the_ size _of him?_

"Excellent!" crowed Lauren, hooking her arm through Josh's. "Come on, Josh, let's go find Daddy and the twins." Josh flashed Jenn a good-luck grin on the way out, the effect rather ruined by the self-satisfied smirk on his girlfriend's face.

"Um… want to go outside?" said Jenn finally, catching sight of some of the kids clustered at the edges of the doorway and not particularly wanting an audience—especially an audience made of kids she'd known for years and were like little siblings to her, and like siblings wouldn't let her forget this for the rest of her life.

"Sure," he said, gesturing for her to lead the way.

"Don't stay out too long," called Hannah after them. "It's cold out there!"

"Thanks," Jenn replied, glad that Lauren wasn't there to suggest something mortifying such as them keeping each other warm, and she and Bruce left the house. They walked for a moment in the snowy silence, gaining a distance from the house, and then Jenn turned towards Bruce. "Um—where did you learn sign language?" she asked, beating around the bush.

"Picked it up in my school years," he said. "I'm a bit rusty, but Holly promises she'll teach me again."

She stopped and turned towards him, hands pushed into the pockets of her jeans and her body tenser than usual, trying to keep from shivering. "Bruce," she said, deciding to just get it over with, "why are you here?"

"Good way to make a man feel welcome," he commented. She looked unblinkingly at him.

"I thought we'd sorted everything out."

"You know, I thought that too, but we're still left with the problem that we're in love and nobody's doing anything about it. So, I decided to."

"Bruce, we decided that it wouldn't work."

"No," he said, patiently shaking his head, " _you_ decided that it wouldn't work. _I_ decided that it will."

"Bruce, _stop it._ "

"No, Jenn, _you_ stop it," he said, reaching out and grabbing her arm, gently enough so that it didn't make her feel indignant. "You made a decision without including me in it. That didn't really sit too well on my end."

"That's because it was my decision to make," she said, not pulling away but staring him in the eyes, sounding less certain of herself.

"Not really," he said, shaking his head. She sighed and lowered her face, studying the snow-covered ground.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to come back to Gotham with me."

"Bruce, that's _impossible._ "

"Why?"

"You _know_ why!" she said, losing her patience.

"Let's at least give it a try."

"We can't! One mistake, Bruce, on either of our ends, and it all comes crashing down. You could _die._ "

"If I was _careless_ , maybe, but what makes you think I won't be twice as cautious with you at home?" She didn't have an answer for him. Sensing an advantage, he pressed on. "Name one person who's found out without me telling or showing them." She lifted uncertain eyes to his. "You can't. No one has."

"It doesn't mean no one _will._ "

"I already have to care for Alfred," Bruce pressed. "You won't make much of a difference to the workload." She still looked unsure. "Just one try, Jenn, that's all I'm asking for. Lauren says that you're miserable over here, I'm miserable in Gotham—we can at least be miserable together."

At that, she gave a slight laugh. "I think being together would defeat the purpose of being miserable," she said, and he figured that he had the battle pretty much won.

"Come on, Jenn," he said, pulling her closer and noting that she put up no resistance. "You say that this is to keep us alive, but is it even _worth_ living if we're not together?"

"You _have_ to put it that way, don't you," she sighed, but there was a spark of happiness in her eyes and expression that hadn't been there before, and she wound her arms around his neck. "Fine," she finally said, leaning into him as he rested his chin on her shoulder, "but I'm doing this for _you_."

"I'm sure," he laughed, his warm breath ghosting across the side of her face and making her shiver. "You know that Lauren said that you say my name in your sleep," he added, a hint of mischief in his tone.

Jenn jerked away immediately, eyes filled with horror. "She did _not_!" Bruce laughed, reaching out again and catching her before she could run into the house and hunt her friend down.

"You'll be thanking her after I'm done with you," he said, pulling her close once more.

"Was that a promise or a threat?" Jenn wanted to know.

"What do you want it to be?"

"Um," she said, distracted by his mouth, "can I let you know later?"

"Sure," he said, and leaned down to softly mold his lips to hers.

For a few minutes, they stood there in uninterrupted bliss, till the giggles from the house reached them. "Get a room!" yelled Max.

"Yeah, don't get frostbite!" came Lauren's catcall. Bruce pulled back an inch or so.

"How old is she again?"

"I lose track. Five, I think?" He gave a hoarse chuckle and she knew she wasn't ready to go in just yet. "Just ignore them," she murmured into his lips. "They'll give up when they realize we're not even hearing them."

"Sounds like a plan," Bruce said, going back in to kiss her again.

**Epilogue**

_November 12_ _th_

_Gotham City (Daily Inquirer, June Leraunt)_

As Christmas time looms on the horizon, many of us turn eager eyes to the social events and holiday parties that mark the year. This year in particular, our attention focuses on Bruce Wayne.

Yes, true, it has been more than a year since the eccentric billionaire burned down his manor—it has been restored in full and he's apologized for the evening—but this time, it's different. Bruce Wayne, playboy extraordinaire, has been spotted numerous times around town in the company of a young woman—the _same_ woman.

Could he have finally finished sowing his wild oats? Is Gotham's prodigal son finally settling down? Only time will tell. In the meantime, readers, continue to peruse the _Inquirer_ , and I promise to bring you as much information as I can on the elusive socialite.

* * *

_November 17_ _th_

_Gotham City (_ Trend _Magazine, Elissa Monarch)_

_(Photo Credit: Jonathan Travers)_

Upon seeing Bruce Wayne palling around town with a mysterious woman, you readers have clamored for information. And I, Elissa Monarch, have complied with your requests.

Turns out, we've seen her before. She's gotten a new look, changed her hair and attitude, but I guarantee you that she is, indeed, Jennifer Redgrove. As we all know, the heiress recently came into her fortune of billions when her father was found murdered early this month, and beforehand there was some speculation that she and Bruce Wayne had been going out, but the rumors seemed unfounded.

Not any longer. With daddy out of the way, Jenn and the Wayne Enterprises CEO have been quite open with their relationship, appearing not only in the top-notch restaurants and at the biggest parties but on the streets, window-shopping in casual garb and just spending time together throughout the day—something he's never been spotted doing with the gorgeous actresses and models he's dated before. Looks like Bruce is forgetting his playboy ways—or is this a publicity stunt to gain attention? Me, I'm kind of skeptical, but everyone I've talked to who have seen them in person replies with a resounding _no._ Are they for real? Maybe, maybe not. I'll keep you updated, people. This is Elissa Monarch, signing off.

* * *

_November 26_ _th_

_Gotham City (_ Hearsay _, Rebecca Baker)_

_(Photo Credit: Jonathan Travers)_

Gasp! Are Bruce and Jenn over? Half of the women in Gotham City, hopeful for their chance with the sexy Bruce Wayne, pray for the answer to be yes, and are joined by half the men with their eyes on sweet little Jenn—not so sweet last night.

What leads me to assume that their past weeks of happiness seem to be crashing down around their ears? Well, maybe I should start at the beginning.

Last night, as many of you know, the Foster hotel chain threw one of the largest holiday parties of the season. As expected, hundreds of socialites, actors/actresses, bluebloods, politicians and the like showed up, making it just as big as expected.

It seems that halfway through the party, Bruce and Jenn were separated by the milling crowd. She met and began talking to someone—that _someone_ just happened to be Lex Luthor, in town from Metropolis on business, rival of Bruce Wayne since their school years and extremely wealthy LexCorp CEO and rumored candidate for a future presidential election. They were striking up a warm friendship—obviously, Lex was charmed as easily as the rest of the glitterati by Jenn's simply nature and honest, sweet smile—when Bruce found them. He wasn't happy.

After a few barbs exchanged between him and Lex, he toted Jenn off. It turned out that she wasn't too pleased with this, as became clear halfway through dinner, when it was obvious that the two were having an argument that they tried to keep to whispers. Well, _that_ plan failed when Jenn not-so-unobtrusively slapped Bruce and left the room. Shortly afterwards, he followed.

Things are strangely quiet, and Gotham City waits in anticipation for the news that will either confirm or deny our suspicions. Rumors of discovering the two engaged in a rather involved liplock afterwards have been discounted because of unreliability.

So, was the fight enough to break them apart, or is their relationship stronger than we suspect? I suppose we'll see in time.

* * *

_December 1_ _st_

_Gotham City_ ( , _Esmerelda Greene_ )

_(Photo: Esmerelda Greene)_

Nope, people, their relationship isn't ruined. Far from it. It seems stronger than ever before.

Who am I talking about? Why, who else but Gotham's golden couple, Bruce Wayne and Jennifer Redgrove? I had the opportunity to attend a quiet cocktail party thrown by Owen Munroe, a former business partner of Jenn's father's, and she and Bruce were there. When I asked to interview her, she gave me that honestly sweet smile of hers and told me that as much time as she had before Bruce returned from talking to a colleague was mine. Needless to say, I got to it pretty quickly.

 **EG** : So, Jennifer-

 **JR** : Oh, _please_ —call me Jenn. I haven't been called Jennifer since I was a kid.

 **EG** : Jenn, got it. So, Jenn, there have been some rumors circulating around that you and Bruce are over.

 **JR** : (Looks bemused) Hmm?

 **EG** : Obviously not, since you're here together this evening, but the fight a couple of nights ago must have shaken your relationship a little.

 **JR** : Oh! That! (Laughs) No, something as little as that isn't going to tear us apart. Trust me, we've been through a lot worse and come out unscathed. Well, relatively.

 **EG** : So what was the fight about?

 **JR** : Ah, you know… I was just talking to someone that I didn't know Bruce didn't exactly like.

 **EG** : Lex Luthor?

 **JR** : Exactly. (Smiles)

 **EG** : So, knowing now that they've been rivals for as long as they have, are you planning on speaking with Lex if you ever see him again?

 **JR** : Oh, absolutely.

 **EG** : (Laughs)

 **JR** : (Smiles) No, I'm serious. Lex was really nice after his initial reservations, if… unique, and just because he and Bruce are business rivals and, um, don't really get along, it doesn't mean I can't retain an acquaintance with him.

 **EG** : Does Bruce know about this?

 **JR** : Oh, yeah. We fought it out afterwards. He's not happy, but he isn't going to be able to stop it—I'm kind of stubborn.

 **EG** : Yeah—maybe he just wanted to avoid another slap in the face.

 **JR** : (Blushes— _no, I'm serious, folks, she actually blushed_ ) I didn't hit him that hard.

 **EG** : What about the rumors that you two were found kissing a little while afterward?

 **JR** : (Blush grows) Uh, no comment.

 **EG** : (Laughs) Okay, we'll skip over that. I'm going to ask you a question that has been on pretty much everyone's mind since you two started being spotted together.

 **JR** : Go for it.

 **EG** : As you know, you were gone for about a month.

 **JR** : Yeah.

 **EG** : There were a lot of rumors circulating around that you'd been kidnapped all that time. What happened there?

 **JR** : Oh, absolutely not. The truth was, my dad and I had a fight, and Bruce—just a friend at the time—happened along just afterwards. He invited me to stay at the manor for a while—he didn't like the idea of me in a hotel, I guess.

 **EG** : Understandable. That was very sweet of him.

 **JR** : Oh, I know. I was so relieved.

 **EG** : So do you two have any plans for Christmas?

 **JR** : I'm not sure yet. We might stay home, but then again, we might be going to England.

 **EG** : And what's in England?

 **JR** : My surrogate family, basically. I spent a lot of my later teenage years and graduated college in England, and beforehand my Dad arranged for me to live with a family, so lucky for me I got a wonderful one. They took a liking to Bruce when he came there to bring me back to Gotham a month ago, so we might be headed there.

 **EG** : About that—there have been a lot of rumors as to how you two got together. Care to clarify?

 **JR** : Oh, you know… I was new to Gotham and, um, he was one of the only friends I had. It kind of developed from there, and when I left the country after my dad died, he came after me to bring me back.

 **EG** : That's so romantic.

 **JR** : (Laughs) Tell me about it. I'm lucky to have him.

 **EG** : So do we hear wedding bells in the future?

 **JR** : Not sure about that. I'll let you know when _I_ know, deal?

 **EG** : Sounds good to me.

At that point, Bruce Wayne came up and claimed his date from me. I wasn't able to get anything but a cryptic, almost mischievous smile out of him when I asked him the same question, but they did manage to let me a snap beautiful picture—which I'm putting up for the sake of you readers.

So there you have it. As soon as Jenn gets back to me like she promised—and I have no doubt she'll keep her promise; there's something about your smile that just makes you believe her—I'll let you guys know. Keep hitting , and I'll keep you updated!

* * *

_December 12_ _th_

_Gotham City_ (Tricks and Teases, _Garrett Banks)_

_(Cover Photo credited to AJ Tens)_

The wails of Gotham's single women (and some of the men, myself included) rise to the skies in grief. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's true. Bruce Wayne has gotten engaged.

To who, you ask? Well, who else? What one woman has occupied his attention these past months? If you need me to tell you, then you don't deserve to know—but I'll say it anyway, as I'm a kind individual. Jenn Redgrove. Yes, the wealthy, lovely woman herself.

So is it for the money? We wish. Maybe then, it would split apart as quickly as it has come together. Unfortunately, both Bruce and Jenn are very comfortable in their fortunes. Neither needs the other financially.

Publicity stunt? Not likely. Anyone who sees them together, their attentiveness to solely each other as common courtesy allows, that infatuated, heated look in their eyes, has to admit that it's that other thing. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, love. Cupid's arrow hit them both, and it hit them hard.

Rumors began ten days ago, the day after Esmerelda Greene of managed to get the first interview out of Jenn and marriage was mentioned as not a sure thing. Reports came flooding in two days later, reports of a ring on Jenn's unlucky finger.

I wouldn't believe until I saw it in person—but there it was, sitting on the ring finger of her left hand, a thin, classy band of white gold with a single diamond set with black opals in the center. I managed to corner the couple and fire off a question as to the ring, and Bruce smirked, while Jenn blushed and hid her face in his shoulder, bringing into being that photo you see on the cover that AJ managed to snap. Confirmation? You tell me.

The couple continues to be elusive about it, but we're forced to admit defeat. They're for real. They're in love. Whether that ring is really to mark engagement or for some other reason, the wedding is inevitable. It's all a matter of time, and the rest of us are left to drown our sorrows.

* * *

_December 16_ _th_

_Gotham City (_ The High Life _with Myrna Smeet)_

After the man himself confirmed it in front of cameras on footage that he knew would be broadcasted nationally, it's now definite that wedding bells are in the future for Bruce Wayne and his fiancée, Jenn Redgrove, leaving us with only one question—why didn't we notice her before?

She's beautiful—not in that glamorous, gorgeous way that actresses and most socialites have, but in that home-grown, healthy way. Her manners are perfect, and she always has that sweet smile of hers ready for even the nosiest of reporters, even if it's flashed while refusing to answer a too-personal question. She's straightforward and unpretentious—obviously, she didn't grow up around the billions of dollars her father had at his disposal.

So where _did_ she grow up? Questions are raised as to her past as her popularity in the public eye grows, and I'm here to deliver. For reasons unknown to us at this juncture, it seems that Alek Redgrove's young wife, Maggie Redgrove, left the marriage—though not legally—after she found out that she was pregnant with our current charming socialite.

For eight years, Jenn grew in the south, making her residence in Kentucky—Maggie, it seemed, was well enough off, but not even in the loosest term of the word rich, so Jenn spent those years growing up among the middle class. After Maggie was murdered in a cold case that, due to some new facts on Alek Redgrove imparted by his daughter, is being reopened with the man himself as the main suspect, Alek gained his custody of his daughter legally—or was it legally? Speculation is being raised that he bribed the judge to rule in his favor.

There's no use digging into that now, though. Jenn spent the next seven years of her life in Gotham, and according to her, "hated it." Much like any preteen/teenage girl, she went through various tomboy and independence-thirsty stages, and while most of us would regard having a wealthy parent as a good thing, she obviously felt suppressed and refused to let him spoil her into compliance.

Finally, after "quite a few showdowns" as Jenn said herself with a laugh, Alek got tired of attempting to raise his daughter and sent her off to school in England, where, according to her, she found a wonderful family that took her in and treated her as their own.

So how was she lucky enough to come into contact with Bruce Wayne?

"My dad had just ordered me home from England," she recalls, sitting very comfortably with me in the studio after I snagged her as she walked by, on the way to her car after grabbing some morning coffee, clad in casual student wear—blue jeans and a stylish but simple black top that probably wasn't designer judging by the way it went so well with the flares encasing her slim, crossed legs, but for its tasteful elegance might as well have been—and regarding me as an equal, unlike many of the bluebloods out there today. "I mean, I was really, really annoyed at having to leave, and he—he dragged me, almost literally, to this party at Wayne Manor. About halfway through the party—and I know you're going to laugh at me for this—I just had to get away, and I stumbled off into a dark room. Turns out," she says, grinning, "Bruce was in the room, too—escaping from all the noise and chaos. That was kind of the instigation of the relationship."

The two have known each other for five months, but have only been dating (at least in public) this past month and a half—so what took them so long to get together? I asked her this very question, and there was silence for a few seconds as she chewed on her lip and studied the ceiling in thought before bringing her expressive brown eyes back to me. "You know," she says, "it was my dad. He _wanted_ me to have some sort of relationship with Bruce, to further his financial ventures, I guess, and me being the rebel that I was towards him resisted as much as possible, even though Bruce and I were obviously attracted to one another."

When I asked her how it came about, she chuckled and informed me that it was "a long story" and not clarifying her statement other than saying, "Bruce was there for me in a way no one else could be."

Sitting there with her, it was obvious how much in love she was with her eccentric fiancée, and despite his evasion of interviews, it's clear that he feels very much the same way about her. The air between them fairly sparks when they're in the room together, and they're rarely seen separate—Jenn more than Bruce, but then, Bruce has always skirted the public eye—though now he stands on the edge more than ever in order to keep an eye on his charming fiancée—perhaps afraid that someone will steal her away?

Maybe _those_ qualms are grounded, as many men have expressed admiration for the appealing young woman, but if he fears for the viciousness of the reporters, he's wasting his time. Jenn, as she's proven several times, is quite capable of taking care of herself in the face of ruthlessness—though she doesn't always have to fight them off herself. Sometimes her fiancée's brooding presence is enough, the reminder that if they go too far, he could easily destroy them. Occasionally, he makes a covertly aggressive comment towards them that informs them clearly that they've crossed the line. Then, when she laughs at him and his cut-in-stone face relaxes into a smile for her, the irritants are left blinking and wondering if they really saw and heard what they did.

When I asked her about the wedding plans, she smiled, the very thought lighting up her face. "We haven't picked a date for certain, yet," she said. "We're trying to decide if we should go with tradition and wait till at least February or March, or hurry up and get married just to get the fuss over, because we _both_ know that, fast as this has come on, it doesn't really require any more contemplation." And with that comment, she checked her watch and gave me that smile of hers, saying that she had to run.

So, will the novelty of her presence wear off, leaving tabloids and newspapers to pick on her negative traits as they do with so many others? I, for one, doubt it. There's something about Jennifer Redgrove's smile and fresh attitude on the socialite scene that seems brand new every time you come into contact with her. It's almost impossible to hate her—and believe me, hundreds of women (and a handful of men) with their hearts set on her handsome fiancée have tried—so she can rest easily, secure in the knowledge that she is loved.

* * *

_December 20_ _th_

_Gotham Tribune: Lifestyles Section_

_Wayne and Redgrove Early Wedding Shocks Gotham_

_by Mercy Mayer_

It's true.

It happened very, very fast, leaving us to catch our breath in shock.

Yesterday, another band joined the engagement ring on Jenn Redgrove's ring finger, and a thick but simple gold band appeared on the second finger of Bruce Wayne's left hand. Sharp-eyed reporters spotted the details when the couple arrived at a charity Christmas party thrown by Congressman Jeremy Ford, and immediately confronted them.

Bruce gave the cameras a smirk, and Jenn joined it with a smile as she told us straight after poking him in the shoulder for teasing the journalists with his silence: they'd been married that very morning after a bare eighteen days of engagement, creating ripples of shock in the Gotham community. "[The wedding was] very small and simple," she confided. "Neither of us wanted a big wedding, so only some extremely close friends on both sides attended."

When some of us managed to get over our shock, we asked her why so short a time between engagement and marriage. She simply shrugged, glancing at her new husband as she spoke. "We already knew that we didn't need a long engagement to know if we were right for each other—we've been through more in the time that we've known each other than a lot of couples have in their lives together."

"We were stuck together for good anyway; we decided that we might as well make it final," put in Bruce with a smirk.

When pressed for details on the guest list, it was revealed that the Wayne family butler, Alfred Pennyworth, was present, along with Lucius Fox and the family with which Jenn stayed during her years in England. Her family on her mother's side was invited as well, but only a few of them made it.

What about the honeymoon? "We're headed for England tomorrow," Bruce said, putting an arm around his wife.

"After spending Christmas with family, we'll probably move around Europe for a bit and maybe even down to Jamaica before coming back here," Jenn added.

After that, the two moved off, declining gracefully to answer any more of the questions—and believe me, there were plenty of them.

Controversy has arisen over the engagement—its brevity will no doubt become famous among the circles of Gotham, especially if the marriage lasts. And _will_ it last? Well, here's one reporter who thinks it will. Despite his past reputation, Bruce Wayne is much like his father in this respect. Doubtless they'll get in their fights, just like everyone, but it's obvious that their love will overpower that.

So, is this a _happily ever after_? In a society where they aren't too common, I'm giving it a maybe. At any rate—and I'm sure you'll agree—it'll be close enough to count.

* * *

"Bruce, have you seen my bag?" Jenn wanted to know, searching under the bed in the hotel suite twenty minutes from the Malton home for the elusive object. She rose to her feet, annoyed.

"No." The voice in her ear was accompanied by arms around her waist, and she jumped.

"Geez, Bruce!" she said with a bit of a laugh. "Think you could talk to me without sneaking up for once?"

"Mm," he said, nuzzling her neck and making her knees go weak just like _that_ , "I doubt it."

Jenn swiveled in his embrace, winding her arms around his waist and looking teasingly into his eyes. The Maltons had offered a guestroom to them, but they'd opted for a rather nice hotel—both for their own privacy and for the sake of the poor children at the Malton home, who would be scarred for life if they saw the blatantly sensual behavior as often as Jenn and Bruce were exhibiting it. The two couldn't seem to get enough of each other.

After reaching up and kissing him for a good amount of time, Jenn pulled back when she realized something. "Hang on. We can't do this right now."

"Why?" he wanted to know, taking a break in kissing her neck in order to ask the question before returning to it. She tilted her head to the side slightly, trying not to let her eyes drift closed.

"Because," she managed to get out, "we're expected at the Maltons for Christmas dinner in twenty minutes."

"Tell them you're sick," he suggested, expression wrought with mischief as he pulled his head back and looked down at her with green, bright eyes. She surveyed him uncertainly.

"Um… no."

"Why?"

"Because not only is this _Christmas dinner,_ " she said, stressing the two words in hope that he'd get that it wasn't just something you skipped, "but if they heard the word 'sick' the entire tribe would come charging down here with chicken soup and peppermints to tend to me."

"Peppermints?" he wanted to know. She laughed.

"It's a thing with them," she said.

"Well, since you've destroyed the mood," he muttered as she pulled away. She laughed at him, knowing that it was all show.

"Oh, hush. You get to eat the best food on the face of the planet in about fifteen minutes, why are you complaining?"

"I'll tell you why I'm complaining…" he went off into a jargon of mutters that trailed off when she bent to search beneath the bed again, giving him a very nice view of her backside, tightly encased by the usual jeans.

After a moment of this silence, she got suspicious and looked over her shoulder to see where his stare was riveted, and then vaulted to her feet. Bruce, his view destroyed, realized that something was wrong.

"What?" he wanted to know, feigning innocence.

"Oh, you know what!" she said, fighting laughter. "Were you checking me out?"

"…no?"

"You're allowed to, you know," she said, and then paused. "Bruce, _don't_ get distracted! We have to go!"

"You're the one being distracting!" he protested, the gleam of teasing in his eyes. She laughed, and then spotted her bag beneath the table.

"Aha!" she said, diving for it. "Okay, are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," he said with a sigh. "What with you always dragging me into that tribe of heathens and all."

"You know you love it," she said with an irrepressible grin, recognizing his comments to just be part of the contagious playfulness he'd been exhibiting over the past few days. When they'd left Gotham City for their vacation, they'd also left Batman and the socialites Bruce Wayne and Jennifer Redgrove behind them temporarily. Right now, they were just Jenn and Bruce.

"Shall we?" he said, offering his arm. She linked hers through it and they headed downstairs.

Christmas dinner at the Malton home was a tremendous event. It was almost bigger than the present-opening and stockings on Christmas morning, as all the friends of the Malton family were invited—half of them weren't ever able to make it as they had their own family engagements, but half of them _were_ there. It was a veritable feast.

Bruce and Jenn pulled up the drive, parking at the end of a long chain of parked cars—blocking in wasn't an issue, as there was a wide expanse of room on either side of the gravel drive in which those who left early were free to use as a makeshift road, as long as they didn't run over any dogs, cats, or children.

Jenn laughed at the look on Bruce's face when the Malton kids—joined by cousins galore, Jenn could just imagine Max: "Com'ere, I want to show you my new brother!"—came catapulting out of the house, charging straight for them and teasingly linked her arm with his once more as if to strengthen him. With Jenn already having the status of an older sister among the children, they regarded Bruce as their brother-in-law, and he was a fast favorite. Holly had already bestowed her infatuation upon him, as she had that first day when he'd arrived, seen her signing a question to her mother, and signed 'hello'. Not many strangers visiting the house could form the silent language. Max and Teddy had been won over when the latter asked how much Bruce could bench, probably put up to it by Max, and Bruce offered to bench _him_ , proceeding to do so effortlessly, much to the amusement of the watching children and adults. The twins loved him from the start, as they did everyone, both believing that everyone was a wonderful person—in this case, they were right.

The wave of children hit them in a mass of hugs, most of them only tall enough to get their arms around his waist, the twins—Riley and Ruth—in particular hugging him as if he were an anchor, refusing to be pulled away by cousins and siblings eager for their turn. The other huggers quickly shifted to Jenn as they were pushed away, being able to reach a bit higher with her and latch around her ribcage.

"Think they missed us?" gasped Jenn to Bruce, her air supply cut short, and he gave her a _you're-going-to-pay-for-this_ look.

The kids finally released them, jabbering loudly, each trying to out-voice the other in thanks for the presents that the couple had brought to England for them. Over their heads, Jenn saw Lauren slap Josh and stalk off inside, followed swiftly by him—another breakup, only to get back together next week, she was sure.

"Bruce! Jenn!" Hannah's voice, strident as usual, overpowered all of the children, and the group, knowing when they were beaten, fell silent. Hannah stood in the doorway, gesturing for them. "Come inside! It's frigid out there and we're getting ready to start!"

At the promise of dinner—for which they'd likely been waiting two or three hours—the children surged for the door, leaving them alone outside. Jenn and Bruce released simultaneous breaths of relief, and then Jenn started laughing at him.

"You know you love them."

"Unfortunately," grumbled Bruce. "If I didn't I could just kill 'em off."

"Like you would," she said. He wrapped one arm around her waist and gestured towards the lit house.

"Shall we, Mrs. Wayne?" She smirked at him, standing on tiptoe to press a soft, sweet kiss to his mouth before they started towards the house.

"I believe we shall, Mr. Wayne."

_**Finis** _


End file.
